


Disease that we crave

by scap3goat (kriegswaffel)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dating, Didn't Know They Were Dating, First Time, Floriography, M/M, Mycroft isn't used to feelings, Oral Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, author has an anatomy kink, first samesex relationship, mild Self-harm, overwhelmed John is an emotional John, post season 1 AU, researching sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-12
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 61,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriegswaffel/pseuds/scap3goat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft knew men as loyal and caring as John Watson were hard to come by - and he' experiencing just how hard they are to win over, if it's even possible. But maybe Sherlock has an unwilling hand in this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Bonum ex malo non fit

**Author's Note:**

> A response to a kinkmeme prompt [HERE](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=4274902#t4274902). It's been abandoned for a while, I hope to finally finish it now.

It was one of the instances where not even Sherlock could be angry about his meddling in the end, Mycroft thought. He was standing in a darkened hospital room, staring down at the two men in the beds. They had just survived the strangest hunt they might have been on, the most dangerous and the most reckless one.

 

Sherlock Holmes, hair a black mess against the sheets, but skin as white as them.

John Watson, hair sandy and skin tanned, but still far too pale.

 

Mycroft shook his head as he remembered the shock he had received when he had found Sherlock's latest post on his forum. He had frantically gone through all records to find which pool and assembled a quick response team on the fly. He needed to be prepared for all eventual outcomes.

His defiance had overrun the bubbling panic when he had realised how much would be at stake, how John Watson had never met his boss – Mycroft refused to call her a date or girlfriend even – and Sherlock risking committing treason for a game.

MI6 was always just a phone call away, the pool half an hour and midnight only 20 minutes. They would not arrive before Sherlock would or his adversary, but hopefully before he managed to get himself and John blown up over something that was obviously born out of Sherlock's never ceasing boredom and recklessness. He would have to talk to Sherlock about endangering his flatmate as well in these games.

“Deus Ex Mycroft” Sherlock had scoffed – instead of a thanks – when he and John were safe and relatively unharmed. He wasn't angry because Sherlock disregarded he had needed help, he wasn't angry because Sherlock was trying to belittle his care. He was definitely angry because Sherlock had risked John's life for all the trivial, egoistical reasons and disregarded the fact the man might be in danger because of them.

So, god help him, Mycroft had been close to hitting Sherlock over the head with his umbrella and driving them to hospital himself – and how he detested the London traffic! – when John finally managed to convince Sherlock they needed to go and get checked.

Mycroft didn't want to imagine the fight and argument he would have to put up with once he would explain the need for both men to disappear for a month or two and that everything – from Sherlock's rotting experiments to John's job – had already been taken care of. Although this time Mycroft expected the resistance to come from the side that usually was reasoning at least partly in his favour.

He didn't want to imagine the fight with John Watson, but couldn't help to do so while he observed both men being admitted to hospital for the night.

Sheer exhaustion had taken over them an hour later, injuries and pain had taken their toll on them as well. And last but not least was the dose of sedatives Mycroft had ordered to be administered. They needed rest, he had decided, and they would get that, even if he had to drug them.

 

With an inaudible sigh he turned and left, his own exhaustion slowly creeping through his limbs, wrapping around his bones and making them heavy, immobilising his joints to an extent. He was weary and tired, it was half past five in the morning and he was supposed to be in the office at seven. Obviously he would be, writing a report and issuing warrants for several arrests, going through files and trying to find links, clues, getting down to the mystery that is – or maybe was, there's not enough evidence to suggest he died in the explosion as he'd wanted to suggest – Jim Moriarty.

 

Mycroft would start with his old school.


	2. #01: Obviously the mad hatter ruled Britain

At first Mycroft Holmes never seemed much of a separate identity to John. He was dark, dangerous and looming at first, but he also was the brother of Sherlock, became simply the older brother of John's flatmate.

Somehow to him Mycroft never came without Sherlock, never came for anything but Sherlock. With the 'subject's' agreement John had no qualms about telling Mycroft anything the man undoubtedly had already read on his blog anyway. Sherlock had confirmed Mycroft had powers at his disposal that could provide him with any information he wanted.

John could hold appreciation for the politeness of Mycroft not just prying in their lives by proxy.

 

Still, there was something, a kind of reluctance, whenever Mycroft arranged a meeting with him. Maybe it was because John never knew when that would be, never knew were it would be and never knew what it would entail. John wouldn't have admitted freely that he enjoyed this kind of thrill, the mystery that usually didn't lead to him racing across London by foot and getting beaten up by a drug dealer, shot at by a kidnapper or having to crawl through the sewers for a lead Sherlock had already deduced but seemingly wanted John to suffer for nonetheless.

Mycroft, on the other hand, brought him to the places one rarely saw in London, or never saw in that light he put them in.

John wondered if Mycroft had read “Alice in Wonderland” one time too often.

 

* * *

 

 

They were, at the moment, having tea in the shadows of a looming dinosaur skeleton in the Natural History museum. John stares up at the blackish bones and then back to Mycroft, contemplating to ask about “Alice in Wonderland”.

“How are things in Baker Street? I trust you haven't had proper breakfast.”

John thought he heard “again” muttered under Mycroft's breath, small and quiet, worried. He smiled. “No, indeed. I left in quite a hurry and hadn't had the time. I thought I might grab something on the way.”

The truth was that he wasn't, he was just hoping to have some coffee at work, maybe a biscuit or two. By the time he had been picked up he had still been too upset by Sherlock's antics to bother with food. One of Sherlock's antics at certain times, too.

“Help yourself,” Mycroft said and motioned to the tea sandwiches in front of them. It seemed somewhat out of place for breakfast and somewhat too early for tea, but John's stomach growled approvingly at the sight before him. John took up on the offer, taking a sandwich with tomato and cheddar and tried not to show how famished he actually was by swallowing it whole. That would also have been a waste as John wondered how much taste actually fitted between two small rectangles of sliced bread.

“What has he done today to drive you out that early and unfed?” Mycroft asked, bemusement in his voice. He kept sipping at his tea, eying the sandwiches carefully.

“Just the usual, I guess,” smiled John between egg salad and watercress.

“Heads in the fridge, fingers in the drain?”

“Of that kind, yes. I don't want to spoil you appetite for the rest of the week.”

Mycroft grinned, pouring John and himself some more tea. “Please don't take me for as squeamish as most people are. But the thought is appreciated.”

Now he followed John's lead and picked one of the salmon sandwiches.

 

* * *

  
The next time he found himself in a car going west, judging by the sun and the street signs. John wasn't the best detective but he could be quite observant if he wanted or needed to. Knowing he wouldn't get a word out of Anthea about their destination he leaned back, trying to relax after a hard day at work that had been cut short by this kidnapping. Sarah had sent him home after he had almost stumbled over his own feet getting himself more coffee. (Damn Sherlock, bank robbers and rubella! Maybe biohazard teams should be sent to certain London playgrounds?)

John wondered if maybe Mycroft had had a hand in his early knocking-off today.

The trees rushed by and John contemplated closing his eyes. But he would probably fall asleep and the last thing he wanted was being elbowed awake by Anthea.

Maybe he had been asleep for a bit because when he lazily blinked at world outside the secure confinement of the car he had no idea where they were. The car stopped suddenly and Anthea told him to go along the path until he saw the next building.

John found himself in a large park that seemed somewhat familiar. There were other people around him and some looked strangely at him when he kept walking quite briskly along the path and then he caught sight of the building Anthea had meant.

“Bloody hell,” John whispered, stopping for a second before the Temperate House in Kew Gardens. He entered, almost expecting the whole building to be closed off just for him and Mycroft. He was a little surprised – not disappointed, he told himself – when there were other people. That meant, on the other hand, John was a little lost. Lost until he saw the unimposing man in a black suit standing by the stairway up to the gallery.

John looked up and indeed he could see no one up there. He made eye-contact with the guy in the suit and he nodded, putting a hand on the thick rope used to close the stairway. Of course there had been something, John mused. He walked over to the stairway, was let upstairs and quietly ascended the stairs. The sheer distance from the ground lessened the chatter of the people and John felt a little relieved. Once upstairs he found Mycroft at the small cast-iron table he knew already from the museum. He walked over, greeting Mycroft with a smile.

Immediately Mycroft stood, shaking John's hand and returning the smile eagerly.

They sat down and Mycroft poured John tea and offered him a piece of sponge cake.

Lunch, John realised, had been longer ago than he'd wanted to admit to himself.

“How are you today?” asked Mycroft genuinely concerned.

John picked up his fork and gently poked the cake. “Fine, thank you.”

“And how do you honestly feel?”

There was a sigh and John was happy he had a moment to think about it. After all his mother had taught him that talking with his mouth full was very impolite.

“Tired, I guess,” he finally replied.

“Are you settling in with your job all right again?”

John nodded, “Yeah, it's all coming along nicely. It was nice of Sarah to let me come back after... the incident. How did you arrange that?”

Mycroft smiled slyly. “There was not much convincing to be done.”

“Mycroft,” sighed John, “I am grateful to you, but I might need to get things done on my own.”

“You don't have much time to get them done on your own with Sherlock around,” stated Mycroft.

A weariness came over John that he always felt when they went back to the point they had started off. “I'm not going to take money for looking after Sherlock, for spying on him or for making sure he checks the road before crossing.”

“I was merely insinuating,” Mycroft now argued, “that I know that certain brand of demand and the shift of attention that Sherlock comes with. When the two of you got... involved... has it never crossed your mind that it might be in more danger than just to your life? I put in a good word for you with Sarah because she frankly didn't want to lose someone... so competent.”

John blinked rapidly, searching Mycroft's face, “So you're not going to offer me money this time?”

“Would you accept it?” smirked the other rhetorically.

“Never,” grinned John.

“Then what's the point in offering?”

Both men were at least slightly amused at this exchange.

The next suggestion was spoken in a very careful voice, one Mycroft reserved for talking an idea into particularly daft and short-tempered politicians, “Let's play a game.”

“Another one – besides the one we're in right now?”

Mycroft ignored the comment, “What flowers would you pick for a bouquet for your room?”

John smiled out of sheer politeness, “What?” This was nothing he'd expected in a million years.

“We're in a botanical garden. Humour me,” Mycroft demanded and leaned back.

John thought for a moment. “Grass, evergreens, heath... maybe fox gloves in between.”

“Fox gloves. Poisonous but also a medicine,” stated Mycroft, head tilted slightly to the side.

“Yeah,” John whispered and nodded. “Probably.”

Mycroft smiled softly. “I would say you should rather pick a camellia. Red, maybe.”

“Red's not my colour,” replied John, trying to brush Mycroft off.

There was a cool calculation in Mycroft's voice that wouldn't exactly fit his next statement, “So no roses? Not even a burgundy one? With baby's breath and fern.” It had turned to a statement.

Embarrassment and unfounded anger rose in John. How dare this man make something so akin to an offer? “That almost sounds like you were going to send me flowers for a date.”

“This is just hypothetical,” Mycroft backed off. “There are not many people to play these games with. They are highly engaging to the mind. Fantasy is a remarkable stimulant.”

“Narcissus,” John then replied.

Mycroft nodded and smiled a pleased smile. “Yes, an interesting choice.”

“They're long, as much as you're tall, and their blossoms go to the side. You're somewhat sideways, too. Also, yellow. It's a warning. Sometimes it does mean cowardly,” John went on but Mycroft's smile never faltered, if anything it deepened as if there was something John had said Mycroft knew more about. Finally Mycroft blinked and his pale eyes focused on his teacup, his eyelids heavy. There was something delicate about the picture, John realised. Delicate was something he didn't actually associate with Mycroft Holmes. But there he was, eyes cast down and shielded by soft, amber lashes, a gentle smirk playing around his lips.

John turned his gaze away and cleared his throat, “Sherlock will be wondering by now where I am. I should get home.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, his eyes having snapped up to John, searching the other's profile for a reason for John to say what they both knew to be improbable. “It was a pleasure, as always.”

“Yes, indeed,” John nodded and turned towards Mycroft again. “Until the next time then?” He held up his hand when Mycroft was about to stand. “No, it's okay. I'll find the way out.”

John left and Mycroft took out his small brown book, jotting down a few words.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock didn't bother with acknowledging John's arrival home with more than a hiss when John was about to speak. So John sat down in his armchair and switched on the TV. After about half an hour Sherlock could tear his eyes away from his experiment and eyed John all over.

However a cup of tea from their kitchen and something very trivial on TV had brushed most evidence of John's day from his face.

“Soil. You were at a park,” was the best Sherlock had for the moment.

“Yes,” answered John, slightly distracted. After a second he turned towards Sherlock and asked him, “What would you think if I would compare you to a Narcissus?”

“White or yellow?” Sherlock shot back immediately.

Now John was confused. “Does it make a difference?”

“White Narcissi do stand for egotism. The yellow variant, especially the Narcissus jonquilla stands for something else entirely. I have not remembered what, though.”  
John nodded, obviously distracted again, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

“I hope you don't want me to look it up,” he said in a somewhat annoyed tone and was still not pleased when John shook his head, his right thumbnail between his teeth.  
“No, thanks.”

Sherlock was determined to somehow get behind what was bothering John – and probably why it wasn't him.

 

* * *

  
  
John's mood however had changed by the morning when most details of the extraordinary tea had faded to his subconscious. He didn't treat the incident any differently than he did the usual meeting with Mycroft. It was easy to treat them with a certain ease, knowing Mycroft was no danger to him.

A week later John's mobile signalled an incoming text just when John was getting his third coffee for the morning. He tried to imagine what Sherlock was up to now, if he needed someone to hold a beaker for him or get his laptop's power cord from upstairs. He still had his antics.

 

> _You have arrangements for lunch. Mycroft Holmes_

  
  
He stared at the display and started to type a reply.

 

> _No, not that I know of. JW_

  
  
But John sighed and deleted it all as it sunk in.

 

> _When should I take my break? JW_

  
  
Quarter to twelve John stepped out of the practice to a waiting black car, only to be taken not much farther than around the corner to a tiny Italian restaurant. It was empty save for Mycroft next to a set table across the room.

John eyed the tacky interior design, trellises with plastic vines, fake marble pillars and cheesy murals. The lights were dim and there was a candle on the table. It made John smile, reminding him of the first time he had dinner with Sherlock.

“This is... different,” John said by the way of a greeting.

“I thought you might appreciate something as... practical as lunch on a workday. Do I have your approval for this?” Mycroft asked, his voice on an edge between amusement and demand.

“Yes,” nodded John and sat down on the offered chair, brushing over the red and white chequered table cloth, eyes flickering over an assortment of antipasti. “This seems very normal, but... I do know Felippe's closed just two weeks ago.”

Mycroft studied John's face, reading his lopsided grin as another kind of approval, some kind of appreciation of Mycroft's ways but there was also some resignation in John's eyes. Mycroft wondered if he had done something wrong, put John in a situation he felt misplaced in.

“Touché,” Mycroft smiled after a moment and was relieved to hear John laugh quietly. A waiter arrived by their table and Mycroft reasoned that one glass of wine with lunch would not do him any harm. Quite on the contrary.

John agreed and turned his attention to the antipasti. Grilled vegetables, olives, cheese and air-dried ham, sliced so thin you probably could read the paper right through it.

After they had exchanged the usual niceties they were served spaghetti with grilled eggplants and courgettes, olive oil, garlic and grated parmesan. It was the most authentic Italian pasta he had had since that one vacation with his parents when he was ten. He had hated the pasta then, it wasn't what he had known, but the grown-up him could appreciate all this.

Mycroft smiled softly, observing John's blissful smile, and sipped at the wine. He knew they didn't have much time for lunch, but he felt somewhat happy to be able to treat John to something he seemed to enjoy.

After the pasta came a risotto, with seafood and asparagus, and a side order of salad.

“Are you trying to fatten me up?” John joked, but sobered quickly, “No, this is really excellent.”

A proud smile appeared on Mycroft's face and he put down his fork, folding his hands in front of his face, watching John for a moment.

“Is something wrong?” asked John, his eyes flickering between Mycroft's fork and face.

“Not at all. I'm merely pacing myself a bit.”

John nodded but still felt watched.

“So,” he began after a moment, “You're working for the government but you're no political figure. In fact, there's nothing on you anywhere online.”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, I know.”

“Is that by default or by design?”

“Our parents had, in all their boring and mind numbing country life, the foresight to give my brother and me these extraordinary names. For Sherlock to be found and me to be filtered out.”

John nodded. “So from the moment I googled your name MI5 was onto me, right?”

“Oh John,” Mycroft chuckled, “Don't you think I've got more... style than that?”

“So the snipers are a permanent fitting around 221B,” John grinned and it drew a small, distracted smile from Mycroft. No doubt, John thought, because something was actually going on.

They finished the main course in silence and John finally looked down at his watch. He frowned at the broken glass. It had been damaged during a hunt last weekend and John hadn't had the time to look for a replacement, instead squinting through the web of cracks.

“Well, I'm sorry, but I think I can't stay for desert,” he sighed. “I need to get back to work.”

Mycroft smiled nonchalantly. “So do I.”

“Thank you,” John nodded. “I think I'll walk back now. It's not that far and I could do with some air. I haven't been able to enjoy the summer in the last few weeks.”

“As you wish,” Mycroft smiled and still rose to follow John to the door and bid him good bye.

 

* * *

 

 

Back at the practice Sarah looked at him strangely and told him something had been delivered for him. “Please tell me it's not a bomb,” she said as she handed over the small carton. It had a light blue flower pattern and John had a sneaking suspicion. He worried the lid off and indeed it revealed a linen napkin with lace trimmings folded over something and a small card on top.

“For all your desert/tea delights,” John read out and brushed the napkin back, revealing tiny biscuits. He sighed a little, shaking his head. “Biscuit, Sarah?”

“So you were on a date,” she grinned and picked out something that looked like shortbread.

 

* * *

 

 

Finally at home that evening John refused to put up with any other eccentrics that night. He made himself a sandwich, flopped down in front of the TV, gave the shortest answers to Sherlock's questions and decided to call it a day at half past nine.

After a long and hot shower to wash off the stench of the disinfectant he had made such generous use of the last few days he put on his favourite soft pyjamas and slipped under the covers on his bed. He knew there was a book on his night stand that he had promised to read and give back as soon as possible. Maybe today was the day he would finally get past the first chapter?

He reached for the volume but his fingers touched something else on top of it. As he turned he saw a long, brown box, not more than two inches wide and and inch high, but at least ten inches in length. With a certain sense of déjà vu he picked it up and opened it, only to find a watch nestled in blue satin. It wasn't too different from his old watch, a sturdy model, something that would hopefully not break again.

With a sense of righteousness John put his old watch next to the new one, smiling to himself at the roundabout way Sherlock had obviously admitted he was the reason why John's old watch was broken. He felt a sense of victory.


	3. Chapter 2: A nanny's night off

It was a Friday evening and John felt exhausted after a day in the practice and pushing through all the people at the shops, getting last minute weekend supplies. Those after booze weren't even the worst, he found. People debating what brand of jam they should get in the middle of a full shop were the worst. They kept everyone else from efficiently shopping.

  
However he had survived the day, the almost Darwinesque struggle for food and now only wanted to crash on the sofa and neither hear nor see anything of the world for the night.

  
“Sherlock?” John called out to the flat, “Sherlock, are you in?”

  
John turned towards the kitchen to put the groceries away and stopped dead in his tracks. He wondered if he should comically drop the bags on the floor.

Staring at him in some kind of shock was one DI Lestrade, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging half off his shoulders, his trousers undone.

Seeming relatively unfazed by John's sudden appearance was Sherlock, chest bare, trousers around his ankles and Lestrade's hand in his pants. “Hello John, I hope you brought milk?”

John blinked, put the grocery bags carefully on the chair before him and then turned around and left the flat without another word. It wasn't before he was out on the street that he realised what had happened. Or what hadn't happened.

Neither of them had freaked out, neither of them had tried to cover themselves. Yes, Sherlock was just that, insufferable and not in the slightest modest or ashamed of what he was doing.

Lestrade probably had just frozen.

And John? John couldn't say he had anticipated this but he also couldn't say he hadn't. He walked down the street, wondering if he should get a beer somewhere but his mind finally caught up with what he had witnessed. And he found himself upset.

Upset because of Sherlock on the kitchen table, almost naked, in the arms of Lestrade, about to have sex? Definitely. But what was his point of concern exactly?

Sherlock on the kitchen table? Nope. He had found an assortment of mice in various stages of decay there just last week. A study in presents brought to humans by their feline friends, Sherlock had explained. Sherlock or potential bodily liquids spilled on there were not the problem. (A distant part of his brain muttered, “That's what bleach is for.”)

Almost naked wasn't a problem either, he figured. He had often seen Sherlock in various states of undress, they were living together, they were both male, Sherlock had no sense of privacy or personal space and John had used communal showers far too often in the service. Also, Sherlock was not quite unattractive. Quite on the contrary, probably.

The same probably was true for Lestrade. He was a nice, if a bit grumpy, guy. And obviously he was caring for Sherlock – not just because they were shagging. If not a couple they at least were symbiotic, needing each other on a professional basis, maybe also emotional – judging by their matching nicotine patches.

But despite all this, John couldn't actually see a point where he would be jealous of either. He liked both men and they were okay looking but the thought of standing in for either of them brought – nothing, actually.

He liked Lestrade, but there were no feelings, he didn't feel anything romantic or sexual for the DI. And it was similar with being in Lestrade's place, groping and kissing Sherlock. It actually seemed ridiculous to John. He remembered the time they had been flirting for an undercover job once. It had been a funny night, they had laughed about it afterwards, like friends. Like brothers.

John realised he loved Sherlock Holmes like a brother. A weird, aloof, pompous and arrogant, allegedly asexual brother.

He winced at this. Sex. The prude Englishman in him had found his point of concern. Sherlock was having unannounced sex on the kitchen table. Sherlock was having sex. And John wasn't.

Sarah and he hadn't gone that far, he never got any further than the sofa and now he didn't care for going any further than the sofa. She was nice, she had become his friend. But there was nothing more than their friendship.

“For Christ's sake,” muttered John, feeling foolish. “I'm jealous because I'm the miserable, blue balled friend of someone with a sex life.”

The little old Lady passing him by with her Yorkshire Terrier turned around to eye him head to toe and shook her head at the sex-crazed London youth.

 

 

John walked on until darkness had fallen all around him – save for all the bright London lights of shops, cars, busses and street lamps. He turned and went down one of the smaller alleys and after another five minutes he found himself by the Thames. He stopped.

Here it was quieter, no cars or cabs rushing by, only the water below him gushing against the concrete prison, erect to keep it at bay and directed. Lights were dancing on the dark water's surface and John took a deep breath.

Maybe he should call Sherlock to tell him he's fine?

John reached for his mobile but didn't dial.

Maybe texting is better?

For the lack of a better option he starts running through his contacts. Someone, anyone, to talk to.

Angie *click* Andrews, George *click* Bill *click* Boyd, Jeanie *click* Carla *click* Charlie *click* Christine *click* Diane *click*

It went on like that. A name, a click. John kept browsing, not even sure what he was looking for.

Harriet – a painful click.

Holmes, Mycroft – the highlight kept blinking as John stared down at the name.

In fact he was staring long enough for the display to go black. He hit a button, it lit up again. John was mesmerised by the name. His eyes flickered to the little clock at the top of the screen.

He decided eight thirty was a perfectly respectable time to text his flatmate's brother asking for a meeting, a chat. His life had been intruded by the older Holmes at times a lot more inconvenient.

> _Your brother's insufferable right now. Are you free for a chat or something? JW_

It didn't take long before there was an answer.

> _Stay where you are, will pick you up on the way. Should not be longer than 20 minutes. Mycroft Holmes_

John smiled. He turned his head back to the horizon, leaning down on the railing. It wasn't much more than a minute before the next text arrived.

> _Correction: estimated arrival in 10. You must be freezing. Mycroft Holmes_

John's smile turned into a full-blown grin. It was several kinds of nice to know someone cared about his well-being, mentally and physically.

Indeed Mycroft arrived, in person and by foot, just ten minutes later, his trusty umbrella by his side.

“Come with me,” he said, between an offer and an order and John followed Mycroft back up to the streets, a black limousine gliding towards the curb just in time. Mycroft opened the door for John and the doctor slipped in, gliding over to the other side to make space. Mycroft followed him and as soon as the door had closed they went on a journey with yet another destination John had no idea of.

“You were on your way home from work?” John asked after a minute, tired of staring out at the city moving around them, giving way for them. As if everyone and everything was unwillingly, unknowingly at Mycroft's every beck and call.

“So to speak. I might have stayed a bit longer had you not contacted me.”

John knew Mycroft would have worked late and he shouldn't know whether he felt guilty for making Mycroft get out 'early' or proud of just the same thing.

 

 

In the silence Mycroft glanced sideways at John, at his weary face with the dark circles under his eyes. A man working two full-time jobs, one bringing in money, one playing half nanny half sidekick to Mycroft's brother. Sherlock was obviously not taking good enough care of John, the older Holmes decided. He yearned to reach out for John to comfort him, to reassure him someone saw the needs he had, someone was willing to lay down the world in front of him to ease his way in any way John wanted it. Literally, Mycroft thought with a smile, the world.

 

John was surprised when the arrived at in front of a nice, old house in one of the upscale parts of London. Mycroft quickly got out of the car and went around to open the door for John. The doctor stepped out and looked a little lost. The car drove off and Mycroft motioned for John to go along the paved path up to the door. Mycroft followed, unlocking the door over John's shoulder and pushed it open for his guest. John entered, closely followed by Mycroft who switched on the light. It was a rather long hallway with dark brown wood panelling, stairs to the upper floor on the left along with a coat rack. Mycroft helped John out of his jacket and put it on the rack before taking off his own coat and hang it besides John's.

“Let's go to the living room,” Mycroft offered, leading John down the hallway that ended in a door to the right to the enormous living room. There rooms had high ceilings, the windows at full height of the rooms, in between them bookshelves. In front of the closest window on the left was an old leather sofa with a coffee table and two armchairs, in the further corner of the room an arrangement of potted plants and besides that a small sitting group of two chairs and a small, round table. On John's immediate right was a grand piano, a bit farther away a door that lead to what could be the only other room on this floor.

“Have a seat,” was Mycroft's next offer, hand gesturing towards the sofa. “Can I offer you a drink?”

John was insecure, but sat down. “I'll have what you're having. If you're having anything,” he finally smiled. He shrugged subconsciously in the sweater he had worn all day. “Sorry, but I need to get out of this for a while,” he apologised and took the jumper off, revealing a chequered deep red and blue short sleeved shirt. Mycroft gaze brushed over him and he smiled genially.

“Not a problem,” he reassured John, “I know how restricting ones attire can feel after a long day.”

Nevertheless he kept his suit jacket and everything else on, John noted.

Mycroft turned and left through the other door and returned with two glasses and a bottle of red wine.

He poured both of them a generous amount and then sat down next to John, eyes trying to stay fixed on John's face but once of twice flickering to his bare arms nonetheless.

“To insolent siblings,” smiled Mycroft, raising his glass.

John laughed, “Yes, to them. Without whom our days would be so much quieter.”

“Boring, isn't that the word you're looking for?” Mycroft teased, sipping at his glass.

“Maybe,” John replied. “Obviously I would be bored without Sherlock.”

“We both would be,” admitted Mycroft.

There was silence for a moment but John felt desperate to keep their conversation going, “So... you live here. Alone?”

“Is it obvious, to you?” Mycroft inquired, a glint of interest in his eyes.

“Somewhat,” admitted John. “You never made sure to check if there was anyone else. There's no other coats on the rack. Your umbrella has it's own hook on the wall.”

Now Mycroft laughed out and John was surprised at how much he liked that sound. Not quite like those polite half-giggles, it was an open and honest laugh.

“No other shoes, no other coats. Despite...” John hesitated but decided against bringing up the ring on Mycroft's finger. “... despite the size of this place.”

John took a huge gulp of his wine, steeling himself for Mycroft's reply. Had he deduced what John was really on about? With Sherlock John had become more aware of the things he was doing while talking. Looking left or looking right, eyes flickering to objects in question. He had not let his eyes flicker down to Mycroft's hands, had he?

“You're right,” Mycroft nodded. “I live here alone. And I quite like it. I have to bear the never ending chatter of offices every day on the job. I don't need any chatter at home.”

John gave him a questioning look, “Isn't it lonely sometimes? You could look for a quiet flatmate.”

“Not everyone,” Mycroft began, thoughtfully looking down at the wine moving when he rolled the glass's stem between his fingers, “can be as extraordinarily lucky with their flatmates as my brother is with you.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” John nodded, somewhat bristle for no reason, and emptied his glass.

Mycroft smiled gently, unobserved by John staring at the opposite wall, and followed his guest's suit by emptying his glass. He refilled both glasses and committed to his memory the almost guilty look on John's face when he realised Mycroft had seen this side of him now, too, but didn't mind.

 

After the first glass Mycroft kept to what he had refilled in his own, but refilled John's glass at every chance until the bottle was empty. Not because he particularly wanted to see John drunk, but because he had a feeling the doctor could need a night off from worrying about Sherlock and the job and everything else and a hazy mind might just do the trick for him. John had become more animated, smiling more, laughing a tiny bit louder and minding the distance between him and Mycroft less.

Finally they sat side by side, trading their worst stories about “just another day at work, really” and how it never was – and Mycroft was as aware of John leaning into him as John wasn't. It was Mycroft's turn on telling a story – of how something unexpected had turned the office upside down when his superior had had a day off and how Mycroft had managed just fine, but his superior had claimed the praise nonetheless – when suddenly something warm and slightly heavy sank on his shoulder. He glanced sideways and found it was John's head.

His eyes were closed, his breathing calm and even. Mycroft tested shrugging slightly but John didn't wake. He kept murmuring to himself for fifteen minutes and then assumed John had slipped into an even deeper slumber. Carefully he eased John's head off his shoulder, resting it against the couch's back and carefully got up.

He smiled to himself as he carefully arranged John on the couch, his head on a cushion, his feet freed from shoes and resting on the couch as well. Finally he found a blanket and spread it over the sleeping doctor. Mycroft stopped, kneeling by the sleeping man and admired the picture before him.

John looked peaceful in his sleep. Less bothered, less pained. His lips were slightly parted and almost an invitation for those inclined to steel kisses off the defenceless.

Mycroft was no such man and so he simply let his thumb brush over John's hairline before he stood and quietly left the living room.


	4. People run in Circles

John found himself on his stomach, head on his crossed arms and a dull “I should remember something important” in his head.

  
Okay, for one thing this wasn't his couch. Caramel coloured old leather, a bit dry and slightly cracking but yet obviously tended to.

Oh God, Sherlock was rubbing off on him.

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. John groaned softly. How could he have forgotten his host for the evening? Unwilling host, maybe. There was no telling what Mycroft had thought of his brother's flatmate calling him up in the middle of the night.

So, Mycroft's couch it was. A comfortable couch, John admitted. A soft, warm blanket covering him. John sat up and found the pillow he had obviously shoved off the couch the night lying on the floor and his shoes standing neatly next to each other by the end of the couch. He rubbed his hand over his stubbly face, wondering what he had done.

 

Mycroft was paying close attention to the sleeping form of one Dr John H Watson on his couch. Despite the hard life he had chosen for himself he had a very soft appearance. There were more curves to him than angles; his elbows, for example, more round than pointy. His pale arms were covered in fine hair as blond as his scalp, catching the sunlight just like the straight, flaxen strands on his head.

Not even his colours, Mycroft marvelled, were creating a contrast, a straight line, anywhere. The way they were blending into each other they reminded him of the sky on Vernet's LaRochelle Harbour. Only his eyes, that blue, was a contrast to the yellows and beige. A nice contrast, a mesmerising contrast. There was a woman in a blue dress on the dock in the painting, up until now he had always wondered what she was doing there, had felt she was out of place.

Even despite all that romantic blubbering he had allowed his brain to indulge in, Mycroft had of course realised his guest was about to wake up and tried to chase away all those improbable thoughts while he gave John some time to become conscious – and himself to get ready to deal with John without any emotional disturbances riddling his brain.

 

“Ah, you're awake,” came the somewhat cheery exclamation from the small sitting group by the large window. John turned his head around and could not help but smile at Mycroft.

He tried to apologise, but Mycroft brushed it off before John could get to the point.

“Never mind it, John. It is a pleasure to have you as a guest, although I feel slightly guilty of overexerting you. It is not often that my guests fall asleep in the middle of a conversation.”

Now John let out a sigh and rubbed one hand over his face again, “No, I'm sorry. It was just that Sherlock and I have been on this case for the last few days and one does not get much sleep when on a case with Sherlock.”

Maybe John was mistaken but for a moment he thought he'd seen a frown cross Mycroft's otherwise schooled features. “Yes, yes. For a moment it had escaped me how... demanding a life with my brother could be. But his well being is a topic for another day. I can imagine that you might want to refresh a bit? I had the liberty of having something your size put in the guest bathroom. Upstairs, a left turn and the second door on the right, right through the guest room. Make yourself at home.”

“Thank you,” John smiled instead of the “I might miss Sherlock's latest experiments clogging the drains or staining the towels” that lay on his lips.

Indeed John found himself in an immaculate bathroom, white marble with a few warm highlights in brownish reds or reddish browns. Everything he might need was laid out for him, including the fresh clothes Mycroft had mentioned. There was a note on the stack of clothes that instructed him to put his dirty ones in the laundry basket and it would be seen to that they would be cleaned and returned to him. John wondered how go trying to refuse would go.

In the end he just went with what Mycroft had told him, went about his morning rituals the way he was used to and felt at least somewhat alive not quite half an hour later. Hot shower, brushed teeth, shaved, fresh clothes.

He returned to the living room, quite certain Mycroft had left him with Anthea to bring him home, but was surprised by the older Holmes brother still sitting in his armchair, sipping his tea and eyes flickering over a paper, smiling to himself about something.

John cleared his throat and managed a somewhat lopsided smile.

“Ah, there you are,” Mycroft said, returning the smile genuinely. “I trust you are feeling better?”

“So very much better, thank you.”

“I think it would be time for breakfast then.”

John felt a sigh forming in his chest, “I don't want to impose on you any longer than I already have.”

But Mycroft would have none of it getting up to lead John towards the kitchen.

Now John was pretty sure that large, warm hand at the small of his back should not have felt quite that good.

Mycroft finally took his hand off John and asked, “Coffee?” while gesturing for John to take a seat at the kitchen table. John wondered if Mycroft ever had any guests as the kitchen clearly only allowed for intimate dinners and he hadn't seen a sign of a dining room so far.

“Yes, please,” John answered. “Black, no sugar. I'm used to the strong Army brew.”

“Ah, yes. I had the doubtful honour of trying that one time.”

“You did? Were you in the Army?”

“No,” smiled Mycroft placing a cup in front of John and pouring coffee for himself, “but there was the one time someone thought I would serve England better by leaving it than in my office keeping everything in order.”

John sipped at the coffee and found it excellent. “May I ask for more detail of what you are doing? Besides having an assistant in a vital symbiosis with her phone?”

Mycroft chuckled, “My brother describes my work as that of a spider in a net, feeling for all the slight motion created by wind and flies.”

“You're at the centre of a huge web of... information?”

“Precisely. Everything going in and especially everything going out is under my control.”

“So, everything. Secret reports, the election results, the weather and my therapist's notes?”

“Well, yes. It was a necessary precaution when I did a background check on you. It would be decent to apologise but in fact I don't see a reason.”

“I should be angry at you, really. But then... I guess it comes naturally to someone in your position.”

Their conversation switched to lighter topics while they sipped their coffees and ate the croissants Mycroft had produced from somewhere while John was trying to think of a witty retort.

 

John steeled himself for Sherlock's biting remarks when he ascended the few steps to the door to the front door two hours later. Sherlock would deduce John's whereabouts in seconds and chide him for associating with Mycroft. It was a game, almost. A very tiring one at that.

“So, how is my brother?” was Sherlock's question when John entered the living room.

“Very well. So am I, thanks,” muttered John, unsure where sitting down was safe.

“Lestrade brought to my attention that your hasty leave last night might have a specific reason.”

“Yes. You – of all people – were having sex with another human being on our kitchen table.”

“You were never bothered by my chemical experiments or the body parts.”

“It's different!” exclaimed John, wondering if he could sound any more hysterical.

“That's ridiculous. Lestrade and I came to the one and only conclusion that covers all the facts. John, are you in love with me?”

John let out a shaky laugh, “No, of course not.” He decided to sit down in his usual armchair – whether someone had had sex on it (and god knew it couldn't have been him) or not. “No.”

“You were upset that I am in a sexual if not even romantic relationship with another. It is unlikely, with your family background that the fact it is of a homosexual nature would bother you that much. I did tell you that I consider myself married to my work and it was a surprise for you to find me in an extramarital affair, so to speak. The way you are reacting seems to me like someone who feels their love betrayed. I do not understand much of feelings, but this was very clear, even to me.”

John sighed, “And you got it wrong. What else was I supposed to do? Go to my room and stick my fingers in my ears so you could finish? Maybe I was a bit upset, but that wasn't because I'm in love with you. I... I was just disappointed that you couldn't tell me you get it on with someone. And I was disappointed that I haven't been getting any for quite some time now.”

Sherlock frowned. “You're saying this was a general reaction of being exposed to sex?”

John nodded, “Yes. Unexpected sex. Very, very unexpected sex.”

“I don't quite understand how this could have the force of driving you into my brother's arms?”

John rubbed the bridge of his nose, Sherlock could be so dense sometimes. “There's no need to be so dramatic. It didn't drive me anywhere. I was just walking around alone and – frankly – I don't have many friends here. None I could call up at eight thirty in the evening and ask them if they'd want to talk. I thought I could maybe vent a bit to your brother about your behaviour. Not that I did tell him any specifics of what you had done, but we still had a nice evening.”  
Sherlock huffed.

“Considering this thing between you and Lestrade I felt that Mycroft and I were the two people with the least life in the whole of London. So, what should be the danger of texting him if he'd fancy a chat? We had plenty of these little meetings.”

“The difference is that this time you initiated it. You've basically given him every excuse to bother you even more now.”

“But he doesn't bother me,” John exclaimed, “You don't get it, do you? That someone you get along with could get along with your brother as well! It's an idée ﬁxe in your sibling rivalry.”

“John, that would be childish. Also Freud is so 20th century.”

“You've proven to everyone around you many times that you sometimes are a child.”

Sherlock eyed John carefully. “So, you were simply upset at me being so rude as to use our kitchen table for having sex on it with someone you know – and so you know, this is a regular occurrence although Lestrade and I do not share a close, romantic relationship – and without you knowing about those occurrences in first place. You would like to have sex, but are not in love with me.”

“Finally you get it,” sighed John. After all he had thought it all through last night before he'd ended up at the Thames. He couldn't say he didn't love Sherlock, but he wasn't in love with him. He didn't want romance, he just liked him, admired him, loved him like a brother. He was sure of this.

The next question was unexpected, “Are you in love with my brother?”

“Sherlock, please, don't be ridiculous!” groaned John. “I don't have to have deeper feelings for either of you to enjoy spending time with you – no matter how crazy you are.” With that he left the living room to check his mails and catch up on some sleep in his bedroom.

 

John woke up a few hours later after a nice, refreshing nap. He trotted over to the bathroom, examining his reflection in the mirror. Dark circles were still under his eyes, although less defined as just last night. Then there was something else, his eyes fell to the crisp white shirt collar, the grey sweater over it. He ran his hand over one sleeve, feeling the soft, warm wool.

“What does he want of you?” Sherlock suddenly asked and John spun around to his flatmate, trying to school his features into a mask of innocence.

“What?” he asked, blinking rapidly.

“Yes, what. It's genuine cashmere. And not on the cheap side, either – considering what constitutes as 'cheap' with cashmere. Linen shirt, tailored beige dress pants. My brother has been known to take care of things and people he has taken interest in. What could you possible have that is of worth to him?” Sherlock asked, the suspicion giving his voice a deeper tone.

“What?” exclaimed John. “You're delirious! We had a nice evening, we talked about stuff I've written in my blog and a few other things, not much more. He's can read my therapist's notes, for god's sake, there's nothing I can tell him that he doesn't know already. Besides, can't someone like me for who I am?” Something in John was hurting, self-conscious doubt eating away at the warmth Mycroft's care had instilled in him.

“It's obviously not about you talking, it's not about the information you might or might not give him,” Sherlock groaned, “He's begun to gift you unusual but seemingly ordinary things, he's making it so that you cannot refuse him. And it won't be long before you cannot refuse him otherwise either.”

“Otherwise? Otherwise! What are you talking about, Sherlock? Do I look like the kind of person to be charmed into telling him what kind of pyjama you sleep in? Because that is probably the only thing he doesn't know yet!”

“Oh, he does. He takes care of picking out my clothes for me.”

John was tired of the game now. Sherlock's dramatic refusal to accept Mycroft might just be a caring human hurt somewhat. “Then what exactly is it that makes you so upset? Is it because there's someone else caring about what I do? Is it again some silly thing about him stealing your friends?”

“I just don't want you to get attached to or hurt by someone like him.”

“Like him? Like yourself. I think you underestimate your similarities.” John brushed past Sherlock, unsure where to go, but leaving the flat nonetheless. This was becoming almost a habit for him.

He couldn't just call up Mycroft again. He sighed, then browsing through his phone's address book. There was just one person he had an excuse to call up, maybe.

“Hello Harry,” he greeted. “Have you got any time today? Yeah, right now would be fine. Yeah, I'll get a cab, 'ts all right.”

 

He found himself in Harry's kitchen, sipping at strong tea and looking somewhat miserable. It was a nice kitchen. He was surprised ad how bloody functional his sister still was, despite the alcohol, her second divorce, John's sour face in the middle of white tiles and cupboards.

“So, what's your problem? Lover's quarrel with Sherlock?” she asked, somewhat disinterested.

John surprisingly didn't have a hard time to stay calm at that. “Dunno, he seems happy with his boy toy. Especially on our kitchen table.”

Harry's eyebrow rose. “His what? Where? What's going on?”

John sighed, “I ran into Sherlock having sex with a mutual acquaintance on our kitchen table. He accused me of being upset because I'm in love with him.”

“Are you?” Harry teased him, but his look stopped her. “Sorry.”

“No, I'm not. When I told him I'd talked to his brother he went... crazy. I don't know. I've never heard someone talk so vile about their brother.”

“Oh, you've never heard me complain about you,” grinned Harry, lighting a cigarette. “No, sorry. Go on, Johnny.”

“I don't know... I'm just a little... I like Mycroft. He's a decent, nice guy. He's strange, yes, but not any more strange than Sherlock is. Sherlock is trying to convince me he's got an ulterior motive.”

“What makes him think that?” Harry asked.

“Mycroft is a bit peculiar, he invites me to tea on a very short notice, for example. Last night I called him up and he picked me up without a question and we talked over a bottle of wine. There were a few more strange things that happened, but... I'm putting up with Sherlock's moods, his volatile decisions. It's nice to have someone who seems to care.”

Harry grinned, “If I didn't know better I'd say you fancy him...”

John had expected nothing less than brash comments from Harry, fag between her too red lips, the colour applied immaculately. He's still angry at her, at her words. “That's what Sherlock asked as well. Can I not just like someone and not want to shag them? I'm pretty sure, as much as he annoys me, that I love Sherlock, but I don't want to kiss or shag him.”

“Sounds pretty much like a marriage to me.” If it's just disinterest or defence John didn't notice.

“You would know about that, wouldn't you?” John sighed and he realised he was doing an awful lot of that lately. “I think it's probably almost sad that the Holmes' brothers are the closest thing to a friend that I have right now.”

“Maybe Sherlock's jealous,” offers Harry, the closest to advice she's given him in years. “Or his brother is a truly, evil criminal mastermind who's just biding his time and gathering information.”

John shook his head, “Mycroft doesn't need me to tell him anything about our lives. He's the kind of guy who knows everything anyway. Besides...” He hesitated. “... I think I want to be his friend.”

Now Harry laughed, a rough, ragged sound, showing the first signs of years of alcohol and smoke taking toll on her body. “You were always so cute, Johnny.”

His eyes narrowed and he wondered what had brought him here again.

 

Sherlock didn't seem phased by John's absence by the time the doctor returned.

“There's been something delivered for you. I would think it's your clothes, fresh from the laundry.”

“Thanks,” muttered John, feeling somewhat stupid. “Got any preferences for dinner?”

“Hm, no,” Sherlock shook his head, staring back at the ceiling.

“Did you remember to put the groceries away last night?”

“Lestrade did it for me.”

John nodded, trying not to think of the double meaning there. “Okay.”

“Clothes are on your bed,” drawled Sherlock with a sloppy motion of his hand indicating the way and John went upstairs.

Indeed he found his clothes on his bed, laundered and ironed. A card was attached to the suit bag they were in. It was a fine cardboard, folded in half, embossed with a plain but artistic monogram of M and H.

 

> _As promised your clothes. Please keep the ones I gave you._   
> _I think they suit you very well._   
> _In fact I would feel somewhat insulted should you try to return them._
> 
> _~ M. Holmes_

He sighed. What was he going to do about Mycroft?

He enjoyed the attention, he had come to enjoy their meetings, but this whole gift thing was getting almost too much now. As much as he didn't like it, he had to tell Mycroft to stop it.


	5. The best of Starts

That plan went over very well, John thought with a hint of sarcasm when he was sitting on the first floor of a small café, opposite of Mycroft. It didn't seem very strange at first, but they were the only customers, the café usually closed at this day of the week.  
  
“Another sandwich? Or would you like a scone?” Mycroft offered, sticking to a cup of Earl Grey with a slice of lemon.  
  
With a sigh John replied, “Thank you, nothing right now.”  
  
A look of insult crossed over Mycroft's face for the blink of an eye, “Something is bothering you.”  
  
John took all his courage to open his mouth and he glanced sideways when he spoke, “To be honest, this is. This café for example. It's closed on Mondays! You are walking all over the rules and you're dragging me along. And then there's the matter of your gifts.”  
  
“Do you not enjoy my presents?”  
  
John shook his head in disbelief. “I do enjoy them but... I start to feel uneasy about them. Sherlock told me you like to... tend to things or people that interest you. I don't want to listen to him, but I don't want to be one of your... experiments, projects, toys. Call it what you like.”  
  
“Do you feel like a toy?”  
  
“Frankly, yes. You're dressing me up, you're taking me to unique places, I feel like you're trying to prove a point or form me after your own idea of me. I keep wondering what's going on between you and me. Or if there even is something going on between us, if this not something I'm only physically involved in but have no say in. Like a Teddy Bear at a tea party.”  
  
Mycroft smiled slightly, a thin smile, not entirely friendly, “Would you like something you're only physically involved in? No, I'm sorry. That was a bad attempt at a joke. John, I like you and I might be guilty of paying attention to people or things I like. Also, me paying attention to you does involve presents. I'm sorry if I cause you displeasure by that.”  
  
John looked up at Mycroft. “But we both know you're not gonna stop it, are you?”  
  
“What do you think?” Mycroft asked, his smile now somewhat bemused.  
  
“Of course you won't. What do you have in mind next?”  
  
Now Mycroft's smile widened, “Do you like the theatre, John?”  
  
An involuntary smile crossed John's lips. It was the obvious next step... to whatever this was. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. What did you have in mind?”  
  
“There is an excellent version of 'Othello' on at the moment.”  
  
“We're not having a private showing, are we?”  
  
“No. But I must confess to having a box reserved for myself at all times.”  
  
John chuckled to himself, “Well, I guess that is someone I can live with. So, what day and time?”  
  
“Next week, Wednesday. I would send the car around at about seven.”  
  
“Are you doing this to amuse me or to amuse yourself?”  
  
“Would you believe me if I told you one was causing the other?”  
  
Mycroft seemed almost nervous the way he was tapping away at the floor with his umbrella.  
  
John was puzzled, was he a toy? A sort of crossover between a doll and a child? Maybe a godson, a nephew, someone to spoil and treat to clothes, culture and tea.  
  
“Frankly, I can do nothing but believe you. Even if it was a lie, you're way too clever for me to figure it out. On the other hand, what do I have that would give you cause to lie to me about your intentions? You offered me money to spy on Sherlock. That was pretty honest. I can't say that I wouldn't be disappointed if I ever found out you were lying to me. But right now I don't want to believe you're lying.”  
  
A smile flickered over Mycroft's features, but otherwise he remained cool, “Wednesday, at seven.”  
  
“It's an occasion to dress up, isn't it?” joked John.  
  
“Oh, you will,” smiled Mycroft. “You will definitely look the part.”  
  
John smiled, somewhat taken aback. He got a feeling that he was missing a part of the bigger picture. Mycroft was the socially more expressive and competent of the brothers, but somehow this didn't seem normal.  
  
“I'm sorry, but I have to leave you now. The car will be waiting for you.”  
  
John was torn out of his musings and quickly got up, but Mycroft was already almost out of the room. Now he had lost his train of thought and Mycroft was gone without a good-bye.  
  
This was more confusing and frustrating that he had ever believed possible. One thing was certain, though. He would somehow hear from the older Holmes before the week was over.

 

* * *

  
  
And so he did. On Friday a parcel was delivered, Sherlock eyeing it carefully and declaring Mycroft was obviously planning something. John had tried to stop thinking about Mycroft and his intentions, sometimes it had worked, sometimes not. Right now he was kind of curious although he probably knew just as well as Sherlock what was in that parcel.  
  
It wasn't a shock to find a black suit in there with a white shirt, bow tie and waistcoat, black shoes and something that looked liked a compressed hat. John was looking curiously at it and Sherlock – who had been looming in the background – picked the strange thing up. He tapped the flap against John's forehead and the flat object unfolded into a top hat which Sherlock placed on John's head.  
  
“Chapeau claque,” he exclaimed, somewhat exasperated, while he was stalking away already, his curiosity about Mycroft's gift sated. John smiled a bit to himself, carrying the package up to his room. After he had arranged the shirt, waistcoat, trousers and coat carefully on a clothes hanger he admired the ensemble. He had never worn tails before (at least not that he could remember) and in his hands he was balancing a small jewellery box. He knew what was inside, at least he could fathom what it would be. But he was strangely afraid of opening it, of finding something in there he didn't feel worthy of.  
  
After an hour John finally found the courage to open that small black velvet box. Nestled in white satin lay two golden cufflinks. He had expected nothing else, not even the fact how they were so drastically obviously custom made for him with the fine decoration of the rod of asclepius surrounded by a wreath – obviously modelled after the medical corps insignia. A tiny J and W were worked in left and right of the rod. It was ridiculous and tacky, but it was also touching and sweet.  
  
John simply didn't know what to think of it. He didn't know what Mycroft was up to.

 

* * *

  
  
The days until Wednesday only passed so very slowly. At least they did in between the chases and crimes and feeling like he was stumbling after Sherlock through a dark forest only Sherlock could see in. In between those hours time didn't seem to pass at all.  
  
Apart from the parcel John had heard nothing from Mycroft. It shouldn't be as unsettling as it was. But John was unsettled, he was nervous and he didn't exactly know why. At least it was a relief when he found himself in a small snack shop with Sherlock and realised it was Wednesday morning, just after seven.  
  
Sherlock granted them – but mostly John – a break after the all night chase and the doctor stumbled into his bed. He hadn't realised just how tired he was. Yet he managed to set his alarm clock for one o'clock.  
  
Despite that he still woke up at three.

 

* * *

  
  
John was cursing loudly as he stumbled into the bathroom, quickly getting the much needed shower. It took him almost ten minutes before he could actually enjoy the hot water on his aching muscles. Maybe a bath was in order in the near future. But today he simply didn't have the time. He was thoroughly cleaning himself, vigourously combing away at his hair to keep it straight and in place. Then he hurried down into the kitchen but found the fridge empty – safe for Sherlock's latest experiments. So he quickly threw on the first clean clothes he found to go to Speedy's next door. He returned with two sandwiches and two foil containers of pasta.  
  
“Sherlock? I got us something to eat,” he called out to the flat, not sure if Sherlock was actually around. It was only shortly after four so John took some time eating, making himself a cup of tea and browsed through the paper. There were no new messages on his phone and nothing that would warrant this feeling that nothing would actually happen that night. That Mycroft wouldn't come, that John would be sitting around, dressed up and an idiot for believing his flatmate's brother.  
  
Again time went back to going very, very slowly when John was sitting around between half past four and six. Ninety minutes in which he didn't know what to do with himself.   
  
He took his time dressing himself, his hand shaking the whole time. When it was five to seven John began slowly pacing in front of the windows, gazing out into the crowded streets. It was useless and he knew that, but yet he had a feeling it was helping him.  
  
Finally the dark car pulled in before the house and John quickly grabbed his top hat and hurried down the stairs.  
  
“I'm out for the night, Mrs Hudson!” he called before he opened the front door, trying not to rush towards the car. His heart was beating hard in his chest, drumming a merciless rhythm against his ribs, as the driver opened the door to the back seat. John sat down and turned to face the other person.  
  
“Hello, Anthea,” he said, trying hard to swallow his disappointment.  
  
“Hello. Here,” she handed him a small carton without looking up.  
  
John was curious, although that couldn't quite help him over the fact that he had expected Mycroft to be there. Since when had he begun to look so much forward to the man's presence? He must really be desperate for a friend, he figured.  
  
In the box he found a white scarf and gloves. He put both on and waited patiently for their arrival at the theatre. They did arrive, but at an underground car park.  
  
Anthea shooed him out of the car and John was more than relieved to find Mycroft standing a couple of feet away. A soft smile was playing around his lips and he hadn't forsaken his trusty umbrella, albeit his wearing tails as well.  
  
Basically he wore the same as John did, but only basically. There fabric of his tails' lapels and waistcoat seemed plain from afar but as John came closer he noticed the floral pattern interwoven in there with a slightly shinier thread. They created a shimmering pattern where the light hit the fabric in the right angle and John couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of that and how it fit Mycroft.  
  
“Hello John,” smiled Mycroft, shaking John's hand. “I didn't doubt for a minute this would suit you.”  
  
John was feeling a little nervous as he returned the compliment. Yet, he couldn't stop smiling.  
  
“Just one thing and it will be perfect,” Mycroft said and pulled the light red carnation out of his own button hole. “May I?”  
  
Upon John's permission he fixed the flower on John's lapel and smiled to himself. For the lack of words John just smiled.  
  
“Let's go up,” smiled Mycroft and John followed him, almost in a daze. The most people had already gone to their seats so there were only few who noticed them. The employees just nodded at Mycroft or greeted him with a quiet, “Mr Holmes”. Somehow John wasn't surprised.  
  
They arrived at the box just in time before the lights went out. John was suddenly very excited about the play. It had been a long time since he had seen one.

 

* * *

  
  
Mycroft had taken the chair farther away from the stage so he could also keep an eye on John. Time passed and John was leaning at the balustrade, totally immersed in the play. He was smiling and frowning in accordance with every word spoken on the stage, chuckled at the jokes and shook his head at Othello's willingness to believe Iago's stories.  
  
Mycroft did enjoy this private play taking place before him much more than he did enjoy the the players on the stage.

 

* * *

  
  
John didn't become aware of his surroundings again until the intermission. He stretched discreetly and smiled at Mycroft. “Thank you. This is really wonderful! I haven't enjoyed myself like this for a long time – at least not without any actual crimes involved.”  
  
“Let me get you something to drink,” was Mycroft's reply and he almost hurried out of the box. John was surprised but returned to thinking about what parts of the play had unfolded so far until Mycroft returned with two champagne glasses.  
  
“I should warn you,” grinned John, “this stuff gets me tipsy quicker than anything else.”  
  
“To a relaxed evening then,” Mycroft replied, already a little more relaxed then when he had left.  
  
They sat almost in silence, sipping at their glasses until John began to shake his head, staring at the stage like he could still see the players. “One thing that never ceases to puzzle me is how we all claim to have such high moral standards but are willing to lay them all down in a second when someone tells us a story that fuels our fears.”  
  
“It seems to be very common in human nature. It is the thing most easy to manipulate.”  
  
“Still,” John wondered and chuckled when a thought began to surface in the sea of impressions the play left him with. “It makes me wonder who of you is the Iago in this play.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“You or Sherlock. There is no outright lying, but accusations.”  
  
“And you would see yourself as who? Desdemona?”  
  
John shook his head, “As arrogant as it might seem, I'd be Othello. Torn between the two loyalties I feel. Whom should I doubt? Is Sherlock trying to imply bad things about you to get me away from you? Is there something bad about you and Sherlock is right?”  
  
Mycroft smiled a little. “My brother means well, but he sees me from a very specific point of view.”  
  
“Which would be? Iago's? Like you're a threat to our friendship?”  
  
“We are not married so it might be hard to prove that point.”  
  
John laughed out and put a hand on Mycroft's arm. “Right, I forgot that part.”  
  
Had the alcohol not already taken effect John might have noticed how Mycroft's hand had twitched up in an instinct to cover John's, but before Mycroft could withdraw his brain's veto to the movement John's hand had slipped from his arm and left a spot that felt now cold.  
  
“But I'd really like to see Sherlock trying to explain to me that he and his precious inspector have something going because the guy's secretly pining for you.”  
  
Mycroft let out a controlled laugh.  
  
“You knew about that, didn't you? Because if you didn't and I just told you Sherlock might poison me in his sleep.”  
  
“Of course I did,” Mycroft answered, not sure if he had actually known about his brother's affair. He could not bring himself to care, not able to tear his thoughts from everything concerning John - and only John - at the moment. His eyes, his laugh, that warm hand searing a hole in his carefully manufactured and cultivated shell within seconds.  
  
The end of the intermission was a blessing and a curse at the same time.

 

* * *

  
  
John was somewhat more sober at the end of the play, thoughtful and almost brooding.  
  
“Why do we always hurt the ones we love the most?” he muttered, mostly to himself.  
  
“Because people don't care for the things they have. They like to acquire things but not tend to them properly. You have lost two pounds in the last week alone.”  
  
“Are you trying to prove to me Sherlock isn't taking care of me? Or that he acquired me?”  
  
“He is, in his own queer way – but only parts of you are nurtured by his ways.”  
  
John blinked rapidly, “Are you trying to tell me something?”  
  
“I am, to an extend, worried about the two of you. Sherlock has grown used to exerting himself until his body demands the time and peace it needs. He does not consider your well-being, your need for sleep or sustenance.”  
  
John's heart jumped a beat. The suave words exchanged on their first meeting still... haunted him. “I worry about him. Constantly.” That this sentiment should now extend to John himself made him feel strangely comfortable. And whenever he started to feel comfortable he had to find fault with it, oppose that feeling. “That is very nice of you, but I'm taking care of him that way. He helped me with my problems. Dear god, if he only is a dealer for my fix, it still keeps me going. The danger, the battle, the running and thinking, the occasional fight. That keeps me as sane as I can be.”  
  
For a moment Mycroft felt almost helpless, felt the same desperation he had felt whenever he had tried to convince Sherlock of changing his ways. Although he had the intellect to convince John otherwise, he didn't have the strength to do so right now.  
  
“Do you fancy a drink?” he asked instead, hiding his true concerns as deeply as he could. Whatever would happen, Sherlock and John would stay co-dependent for quite some time yet. He didn't want this desperate thoughts to sully his evening now. “I know a nice little place. The Diogenes Club. Home to the somewhat... conservative, but definitely bright minds, feeling abandoned in the streets of London and rather happy to mingle with their own.”  
  
“Diogenes Club?” John asked, “I didn't know there actually still were gentlemen's clubs.”  
  
He blushed when he thought of that other, American meaning of the word.  
  
“There are. Not as prominent as they used to be but still a save haven for men – and sometimes women – who think and feel alike.”  
  
“Does a real club really accept women?” John asked.  
  
“We live in a world where women rule countries and businesses. Not accepting them would be like a slap in the face of logic and social sciences.”  
  
John smiled and followed Mycroft. Instead of going by car they were walking and John couldn't say he didn't enjoy the cool evening air clearing his mind a little.  
  
“I have to warn you, though,” Mycroft said when they arrived in front of an old building, “Talking is not encouraged in rooms outside the stranger's room or the social room. In fact there is a strict non-talking policy for the library.”  
  
“You're not a very social bunch, are you?” smiled John and could so easily picture Mycroft there.  
  
He received an smile as answer. “No, not specifically. We like to have our peace and quiet.”  
  
“I'll just shut up unless you're talking,” grinned John and Mycroft took that as John's agreement.

 

* * *

  
  
John did wonder how Mycroft managed to call the car without John noticing while they were standing side by side. But somehow it did happen. So they sat in the car again for the short trip to the Diogenes Club. It was besides the other old and notable clubs on Pall Mall and John and Mycroft were dropped of almost on the doorstep. Mycroft took the few steps up to the door in his long stride, almost as he was rushing home. John followed and the porter opened the door for them.  
  
They found themselves in a big entrance hall and Mycroft glided over to the reception.  
  
“Mr Holmes,” greeted the man standing behind the reception.  
  
“Good evening, Jones,” answered Mycroft, signing in the reception book. He waved John over and handed over the pen for John to sign behind where Mycroft had already printed his name and 'Visitor'. John signed, then followed Mycroft's example and handed over his hat, gloves and scarf.  
  
“I'll give you a short tour,” Mycroft then offered.  
  
John wondered if the whole building had been taken from the Victorian times and brought to the present, dark polished woods and high ceilings given it a certain 'olden day' flair. He followed Mycroft, wide-eyed and taking in all the impressions.  
  
“This is the social or stranger's room. For all the chatter, drinking and smoking one might desire.”  
  
The social room was small, compared to the writing room or the library they had seen before. There were small groups of comfortable armchairs all over the room. The 'chatter' was more like a low murmur, although there were quite a few people present.  
  
“Are you even allowed to have smoking in a room where drinks are served?”  
  
“Ah, my dear John,” smiled Mycroft, “the Diogenes Club doesn't sell drinks apart from the small restaurant downstairs. Upstairs it merely gives us the chance to store a small amount of alcohol per member. There's also a place to store the cigars. Despite all their unhealthy attributes, would you do me the pleasure of joining me for a cigar and some brandy?”  
  
John smiled and nodded. “Well, this is a special evening after all.”  
  
Mycroft led John towards two armchairs in a corner of the room and then went to a small bar-like construction at the other end of the room.  
  
John on the other hand kept watching the people in the room – mostly men but one or two women among them. Most of them looked nerdy in an upscale nerdy way. John kept watching a certain woman – dark-haired, immaculate make-up, wearing an obviously expensive pantsuit and alone.  
  
Mycroft returned and caught John staring. He grinned while he sat down, placing the two glasses on the small table between the chairs. “Dr Josephine Weir. A successful business woman and expert on the matter – and on the Diogenes' Founders' Committee.”  
  
“Founders' Committee? This looks looks much older than just a few years.”  
  
Mycroft pulled two cigars from his coat pocket before sitting down. “The Club dates back to second half of the 19th century. The 'Founders' Committee' is just named to remind us all of preserving our traditions and making decisions based on the founders' ideas and intentions.”  
  
John nodded and took a cigar from Mycroft. “Are you on the committee?”  
  
“Of London's most anti-social club? A contradiction in terms actually?”  
  
“That does sound a lot like you – and Sherlock for the matter.”  
  
Mycroft smiled and helped John with the cigar. “Well, I tried to introduce Sherlock to all this, once. I think he will need some time to mellow enough to appreciate the quiet to think. Just keep the smoke in your mouth, don't inhale it, it might make you sick.”  
  
John appreciated the tip, only ever having scrounged a fag of his mates when they had been out to drink and that weed back on their trip to Amsterdam to celebrate their A-Levels. He didn't find the cigar half as repulsive as he'd thought it might be. Actually it reminded him of smoked ham.  
  
Mycroft kept watching him carefully, taking any difference to the usual John in and memorising it.  
  
“How was work?” Mycroft asked and listening to John telling him about the most trivial things he had heard in weeks and enjoyed every second of it.

 

* * *

  
  
After their cigars John announced he needed some air. Mycroft led him to a door to an empty balcony and John drew in a deep, shaky breath.  
  
“The world is turning and I don't know if it's the nicotine or the alcohol.”  
  
“This was an evening with many impressions,” Mycroft said and watched worriedly how John began to shiver in the cool night air. “You are cold. We should go back in.”  
  
“No, it's okay,” John replied, still taking deep breaths of the cool London night air. Lights were shimmering everywhere over the skyline and there were noises in the distance, of cars and trains, the sky was clear and revealing as many stars as one could see in such a bright place as London.  
  
Mycroft quickly slipped out of his own coat and put it around John's shoulders. There was a bit of confusion on his face, but he finally muttered a thanks and pulled the extra coat even closer around himself. “You're welcome,” Mycroft replied and stared into the distance.  
  
After a moment John turned towards him and began to speak. “Tonight was wonderful. This was probably the best evening I had in years. It's nothing I could do every week or even once a month, but I did enjoy myself very, very much. It was simply wonderful. Thank you.”  
  
A somewhat lopsided smiled crept on Mycroft's face and he turned towards John. “Tell me, how long has it been since someone told you how beautiful you are?”  
  
John only blinked questioningly. He was still trying to find an answer, a question, something that would give him a something to work with when Mycroft raised a slightly shaking hand and gently brushed his fingers over John's cheek.  
  
Another violent shiver went through John, his eyes fell shut and every hair on his body stood up as if it wanted to rise to meet Mycroft's touch. But something else in John was more than afraid, was keeping him from leaning into the gentle touch.  
  
“Because you are,” Mycroft continued, his words ripping John from that peaceful place, his fear winning over. “You are very, very beautiful.”  
  
Of course, now it all made sense. The tea, the gifts, for God's sake, they were on a date just right now. Something in John was very, very afraid.  
  
“I'm... flattered,” John whispered hoarsely, “but this is something I need to think about first.”  
  
As much as it pained him to lose the warmth, John gave Mycroft his coat back and gave him a pleading look. “Please, give me some time.”  
  
“All the time in the world,” Mycroft replied, his throat tightening uncomfortably. “I'm sorry.”  
  
“Don't be!” John almost shouted. “No, please. Don't be sorry. It's okay. It's not... you're a wonderful man, but I'm... I'm not sure about myself. Ah, crap. I better get going before I say something stupid. Any more stupid than already. Good night, Mycroft. And never, ever be sorry for tonight!”  
  
With that John turned to the door and walked back into the building.

 

* * *

  
  
His heart was racing, his cheek almost burning with that touch. He felt stupid for not having noticed Mycroft's advances. Downstairs he asked for his hat and only started to wonder how he would find a cab at this hour when he was almost out of the door. It turned out he didn't have to as there was a familiar, black car waiting. The driver got out and opened the door for him.  
  
John sighed and got in, silently thankful for Mycroft's thoughtfulness and feeling guilty about it all at the same time.  
  
Little did he know he was observed from overhead by tired, longing eyes.  
  



	6. Interlude: The broken heart // The Stone?

Mycroft almost cursed himself, in a particularly foul mood all the way home. He hadn't felt this helpless since terrorists had managed to detonate a bomb in the middle of London.

  
With the sole difference, Mycroft thought, that this was more than personal.

He had never felt more useless, more defective than tonight. A tight ball of guilt and disgust formed in his gut, burning and hot white, eating away all the pride he had accumulated over the last few years. The last weeks, the whole months he had known and come to like John Watson, had all just lead to this final moment, this failure, dismantling every self-respect he had ever felt.

Discipline, he told himself, was all that he had left. And that was precisely why it couldn't be that the hot, damp spots on his pillow were actually tears.

 

* * *

 

John woke up to the first rays of sunshine, with a bit of a headache and still in his dress shirt and trousers. He had discarded the bow tie and cufflinks on his bedside table, but left everything else on. Quickly he changed into his pyjamas and crawled back into bed. His watch told him that had been merely four hours ago that he had done so the first time.

His watch. John's eyes flickered over the already somewhat dulled and scratched metal. His watch. With shaking fingers he turned it around, brushing his fingers over the metal base.

There was no mark that showed him where it came from and so John took the box it had come in and indeed a small card was hidden under the satin.

 

 

> _It strikes! one, two,_  
>  Three, four, five, six. Enough, enough, dear watch,  
>  Thy pulse hath beat enough. Now sleep and rest;  
>  Would thou could'st make the time to do so too;  
>  I'll wind thee up no more. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~Ben Jonson

It was written in a long, clean handwriting and on the familiar, fine cardboard with the embossed monogram of M and H. John shook his head disbelievingly at his own stupidity.

Despite his unrest he fell asleep just minutes later.

 

* * *

 

His alarm clock rang two hours later and this time dread filled him when everything seemed to come back to him at once. Mycroft's almost confession on the balcony, his concern, his care, his touch. John wanted to pull the blanket over his head and die.

All the signs had been there and he had so obviously chosen to ignore them. There was Mycroft's ulterior motive – if one could call it that. If John had recognised that he might have spared both of them the embarrassment that was yet to come. Instead he had bathed in the attention Mycroft had give him. Foolish and selfish, he concluded his verdict.

He got up and tried to sneak downstairs – unseen, unheard – for a cup of tea.

“Light red carnations stand for affection,” came Sherlock's unique voice from the living room before John was even halfway down the stairs.

“I know,” lied John – but it all made sense.

“Whose affections?” Sherlock wanted to know even if only to prove his own theory, poking the flower still attached to John's coat, discarded over his armchair last night.

“Nobody's. I got that thing last night before your brother told me of its meaning.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow as if he was ready to call John's bluff but did not actually do so. “Well, I hope you had a nice evening.”

“I did,” muttered John, resisting the urge to ask Sherlock if Mycroft had tried to call him.

He told himself that it was useless, he wouldn't know what to say to either brother anyway.


	7. A Penny for your Thoughts

Over the next few weeks John regained five of the seven pounds he had lost since meeting Sherlock. There were no long periods without work but rather a sequence of many short cases leaving them almost with a one to one ratio of a day of work and a day of rest.   
  
But then came the moment when they ran out of things to do and John grew restless after only two days, despite working regular shifts and catching up on paper work.   
  
For three weeks he hadn't heard anything of Mycroft and he realised he hadn't thought about what he would tell him. Over the next idle days John kept brooding, even worse than Sherlock who was amusing himself with experiments and daytime TV and beginning to fill out his clothes some more.  
  
One evening over dinner he frowned at John, at his barely touched food and his absent gaze.  
  
“John,” Sherlock sighed, “You haven't eaten in four days. Even I might start to get worried soon.”  
  
“I'm not hungry,” muttered John, currently sailing a baby carrot through a sea of peas.  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “I'm sure you don't want to talk to me, why not talk to someone you can trust with this kind of things – to an extend.”  
  
John looked up. “What?”  
  
“You know what I mean,” Sherlock smirked, finishing off his dinner with the rare gusto of a man still satisfied with his success in a case and not yet bored enough to pick himself apart.  
  
John nodded and hoped that maybe in an hour his brain would catch up with the life happening around him. He was getting a little slow.  
  
Finally, sitting at his laptop, staring at his empty blog the idea came to him and he made an appointment with his therapist who felt an urgent need to see him as soon as possible.

 

* * *

  
  
So John found himself across her just two days later, feeling somewhat sheepish.  
  
“How are you, John?” she asked.  
  
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her, “Fine, probably.”  
  
Ella scribbled down a few notes, “Your blog?”  
  
“You're reading it. You're not believing me, are you?”  
  
She smiled gently, “Well, some of it seems improbable, but it does coincide with newspaper reports of some of those... cases.”  
  
“Yes, it does. But still... that isn't my problem right now. Over the last few weeks I've been thinking about something that happened to me.”  
  
“What was it?”  
  
“Almost exactly four weeks ago I went out on a date with someone. Only that I didn't realise until it was too late.”  
  
“What did you realise too late?”  
  
“That it was a date, of course. We've known each other for some time now and it's a strange relationship. But we grew together, somehow, and I was beginning to think we were friends. But there were signs. There were gifts and tea-dates and finally we went to the theatre together.”  
  
“Gifts?”  
  
“Yes. Peculiar things, actually. Clothes, mostly... twice actually. For a example a full ensemble for our trip to the theatre. Including a set of cufflinks and everything.”  
  
Ella nodded. “That sound expensive. Can I ask you openly: are we talking about Sherlock here?”  
  
“No,” John sighed. “Why does everybody assume that?”  
  
“Well, you are living with him for quite some time now and I think we both agree that he is a lot better off than he'd like to have everyone believe. Also, you don't mind me saying, but the way you have expressed yourself I assume this person we are talking about is a man.”  
  
John sighed, “Well, yes. He is. And he is obviously ridiculously well off.”  
  
“How did you meet?”  
  
“He is one of Sherlock's... acquaintances. A cool, reserved but caring man. But maybe I got the caring wrong, maybe that was just his interest in me. Maybe he's just meddling.”  
  
Ella eyed John carefully and he thought he could read “Trust issues” written all over her face before she asked, “What do you mean meddling? His gifts to you?”  
  
“I feel a little ashamed at times. I didn't know if I actually wanted that much of his attention, I didn't know how to repay those favours.”  
  
“Did you tell him?”  
  
“I did. I tried, after the first time. He actually apologised if his presents were causing me discomfort.”  
  
“Were those the words he used?”  
  
“Yes, I think so. It might have been 'displeasure' instead of 'discomfort' but I'm not sure.”  
  
“Did he use the word 'present'?”  
  
A pause. “Yes.”  
  
“So, how did you finally find out what was going on?”  
  
“We were at the theatre and had a drink afterwards. All in all I hadn't enjoyed myself like that in a long time. He sort of came on to me after our drinks. It wasn't anything particularly bold or... it was just very suddenly very obviouse what he wanted.”  
  
“Did he tell you?”  
  
“In a kind of way he did. He complimented me and... caressed my cheek.” John lowered his head, feeling an echo of Mycroft's soft touch.  
  
“What did he say?” Ella asked.  
  
“Do I have to tell you?”  
  
“Was it something of an intimate nature? Something sexual?” she now coaxed, knowing very well that it probably wasn't.  
  
“No. Actually...” John stared a small speck of dust on his shoes, “he just said I was beautiful.”  
  
“That was everything,” she stated, not asked, hoping John would get the point.  
Embarrassed John blurted out, “He might have used 'very' once or twice with it.”  
  
“John, it is quite obvious you are afraid.”  
  
“Afraid,” John whispered, snorting slightly at what he knew might be true.  
  
“Yes. Tell me John, if I asked you to define the words 'gift' and 'present', what difference would you make between them?”  
  
John nodded slowly, “I used the one, he the other. Is that your point?”  
  
“It might be. Most people don't know the exact definition of either word but instinctively feel the difference. A gift is formal, almost a legal term, usually something given from – for the lack of a better wording – from richer to poorer, from the superior to his inferior. A present is something given between equals or from the inferior to the superior.”  
  
“And I obviously feel inferior to Mycroft because I use the term 'gift' instead of 'present',” scoffed John. “What a marvellously simple explanation.”  
  
Ella took a note of the name, of John's sarcastic defence and then continued, “I didn't say that was everything that's going on. You were obviously surprised by his open, romantic interest in you. The shock should have worn off by now, so you need to ask yourself the big questions. Do you still want to see him? Do you consider him merely a friend? Or do you fancy him?”  
  
“Why does everybody assume I fancy him?” John shouted.  
  
There was a long stretch of silence between the two of them. “Why does this question upset you that much, John?” Ella asked softly.  
  
“Because everyone I ever knew asked me if I fancy Sherlock and I don't. I'm sick of explaining to everyone that he's become such a big part in my life and that I love him dearly but I don't want, under any circumstances, get into his pants! Nobody seems to get that!”  
  
“But this isn't about Sherlock, John. This is about Mycroft. About whether you like him that way.”  
  
John tried to get the words out of his mouth but some of them were resisting, “I do like him, yes.”  
  
“But how much? John, do you fancy Mycroft?” using the offensive question on purpose.  
  
“I don't know,” replied John, trying to keep himself from grinding his teeth.  
  
“John, we both know that's not true. Either you don't and you're afraid of hurting him or you do and you're afraid of the implications. Of being gay, being different than you were. Of getting hurt.”   
  
There was a long silence in which John averted his eyes.  
  
“Our time is nearly up, John. I want you to try and find out which it is. I know you can do that. It's not fair to either of you to keep yourself in this in-between state. The truth might hurt and frighten you, but it's also something you can work with and bring this situation to an end. Give me a call when you're ready for our next meeting.”  
  
Ella had realised John needed his space, fencing him in with regular appointments made him stubborn and he would resist her.  
  
John got up and nodded. He walked quietly towards the door but finally turned around. “Ella, I think I might fancy him. If you want to take that down, please don't forget to mention that I just want him to be happy and even if I do have feelings for him, I'm not sure I would be any good for him. I'm not like him. We both know I'm... defective in several ways.”  
  
He quickly left without waiting for Ella's reply. He didn't want to believe Mycroft would promise him time to think and then sniff around his therapy notes.

 

* * *

  
  
Sherlock didn't say a word when John came home that evening, preparing a light meal for them but only chocking down a bite or two.  
  
“This is probably the best spaghetti I've ever had,” Sherlock tested the waters but John only nodded, eyes distant and thoughts certainly elsewhere. If there was a puzzle to solve about John it was either very complex or in an area Sherlock had little to no experience with. Sherlock sensed a case ahead  and smiled softly. Maybe he could get Lestrade to come over and help him – even if help meant groaning and sighing about why Sherlock couldn't leave John alone.

 

* * *

  
  
“You need to see my brother,” Sherlock suddenly exclaimed a few days later.  
  
John was taken aback, “What?”  
  
“He hasn't bothered me in a month, he's not been 'inviting' you to your little outings in the same time, you're brooding. The logical conclusion is that something happened after the theatre and the only logical course of action is that you speak with him.”  
  
“Why? Why does it even bother you?”  
  
“Because. Despite everything I have grown accustomed to my brother's meddling and your loyal, steady nature, your calm presence. I can't stand another version of myself in our flat.”  
  
With that he pulled John out of the comfy armchair and shoved him towards the bathroom.  
  
“Shower!” was his only command and John obliged for the lack of another option. In the meantime Sherlock pulled just about every piece of clothing from John's wardrobe in an attempt to find a fitting outfit.  
  
John didn't even find the energy to mind when Sherlock burst in the bathroom unannounced, John just with a towel wrapped around his waist. “You should get a haircut, soon. Also, put on these. I picked out everything. Socks matching the sweater, underwear matching the shirt and these jeans should compliment your backside. Although they would have done a better job before you decided to starve yourself in a desperate imitation of a 'lovesick puppy'. For your information, Lestrade called you that. He added a few thoughts to this situation and had suggestions.”  
  
“What are you going on about?” John asked, shaking his head in disbelief.  
  
Sherlock stood perfectly still for a moment, staring into John's eyes, “I'm talking about making an effort for you to look good. Lestrade said that normal people feel better if they look better, so I am to dress you up a bit. Now, don't complain, get ready. I want you downstairs in fifteen.”  
  
That was definitely a tone John wasn't used to from Sherlock but, again, he complied. White undies, white shirt. Grey socks, grey sweater. Dark blue jeans with a brown belt. Why not, he thought, it was maybe better than sitting around in his pyjamas all day long.

 

* * *

  
  
It wasn't actually before he was sitting in the cab with Sherlock that he realised he had been colour coordinated (shoes matching his belt) to meet Mycroft.  
  
“Sherlock, I don't think I can do this.”  
  
“Meet my brother? You have done so many times before. You've dealt with his and my eccentrics, I think you can solve whatever problem there is between you.”  
  
“It's not a traditional problem,” John tried to explain but not explain at the same time.  
  
“Excellent. You should be able to solve this even quicker then.”  
  
“Sherlock!”  
  
The detective turned his head towards his flatmate, “John. This state of distress you are in and that even seems to affect my brother to some extent is maddening. Simply be an adult and solve this matter so I don't have to dive right into it and do it for you.”  
  
John sighed. It had been so long since he'd felt close to anybody and he wasn't sure he would feel close to Mycroft. It wasn't fair to expose him to this experiment.  
  
“I'm not even sure I can talk to him about that.”  
  
“Will you know when you see him?” Sherlock retorted.  
  
“I might,” John shrugged. “Yes, I think I would. But it won't be fair to Mycroft to simply walk in to see if I can!”  
  
“It will be, if you at least have a decision for him then. We are not like ordinary people. Primarily we don't see good or bad news, we see news. And news are better than silence.”  
  
John nodded, hearing but not quite understanding what Sherlock meant. Ella had also said he needed to work this out.  
  
The cab stopped in front of the same house where it might all have started. Sherlock dragged him out and to the front door, fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.  
  
“Go in,” he shooed John and the doctor went in with a sigh. The door closed silently behind him and only now it sunk in he had to actually face Mycroft now.  
  
The faint and melancholy sounds of a piano and cello came from the direction of the living room. He told himself it was okay to be here since Sherlock had let him in. He told himself he was fine. They would be fine. With that he made his first step.  
  
The hall seemed so much longer than it had the last time and with every step his heart started beating harder. He had no idea what he was going to say.  
  
When he finally reached the door to the living room he opened it as silently as he could and saw Mycroft sitting in his armchair, his back to the door.


	8. It's all coming back to me now

With a few more steps John was behind the chair, itching to reach out for Mycroft.  
  
“This is Beethoven's Sonata Number 5 in D Major for Cello and Piano, the second movement. Adagio Con Molto Sentimento D'affetto. Very long and boring title,” whispered the older Holmes brother, his right hand swaying slightly with the music.  
  
“What does that mean? Slow with much sentiment...?” John answered, moving to Mycroft's left side. He didn't know where this courage came from, where this bold acceptance was rooted. Being with men was not new to him physically, but he hadn't ever thought he might end up on the verge of a relationship with one... how could he have seen and scrutinised every possibly couple-ish thing he and Sherlock had done and missed most of this courtship?  
  
“Almost,” smiled Mycroft. “Slowly with much sense of devotion.”  
  
John smiled. “It's very nice.” And so obviously, painfully true. Never before had someone tried to work himself in John's heart more slowly, steadily, devoted.  
  
“I have recently received a report of another visit to your therapist,” Mycroft stated.  
  
“Yes, that is actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”  
  
Mycroft held up a large, sealed envelope. “I have not read it.”  
  
Strangely enough John felt a little uneasy now. Some part of him had hoped he only needed to utter a ' _What do you think then?_ ' to get this conversation going. “Maybe you should.”  
  
“Why don't you tell me?” Mycroft asked.  
  
Lost for words John crouched down next to the armchair, “It's not all that easy. It's quite difficult to be honest.” He gingerly placed a hand on the armrest next to Mycroft's, then slowly sneaking his own over the other's. Of course Mycroft noticed, turning his own hand around so it and John's came to rest palm against palm. John looked down at their hands, smiling, and slowly, carefully curled his fingers in between Mycroft's. Mycroft mimicked his movements until their hands were folded into each other.  
  
John almost gasped when their hands had slipped so easily into each other, a soft, reassuring squeeze bringing him back completely into the real life. His eyes were stinging and he fell to his knees, leaning against the armchair, his breathing quickening. Why hadn't he realised how much he had needed this before? How much he had missed Mycroft over the last few weeks.  
  
“There are some things I should tell you if you decide you could have a... if we were to get closer.”  
  
“For example?” breathed John, his forehead resting against the armrest, the avalanche of emotion threatening to suffocate him.  
  
Mycroft took a deep breath, “Later maybe. I just want you to know... I care. And the reason why I haven't told you certain things yet is because I care too much sometimes.”  
  
John smiled, feeling so strange at imagining Mycroft caring too much. But he had already witnessed the frail, human part of him. The longing, gentle Mycroft and his fingers on John's cheek.  
  
Almost as if he had read John's thoughts Mycroft lifted John's hand up to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to John's knuckles. John looked up and smiled, Mycroft's face set in a soft smile, his flickering eyes betraying his calm. Quickly John stood up, tugging slightly on Mycroft's hand.  
  
“Come, let's go over to the sofa.”  
  
Mycroft followed John, staring down at their joined hands with a detached curiosity and then up to John's face, his genuine smile. So they sat down, slightly facing each other, and John put his second hand on Mycroft's hand as well.  
  
“I'll be honest with you. I have no idea why I'm here,” he chuckled. “But I... I like you. And I feel bad for making you feel bad. I would even feel worse if I tried to be something to make you happy only to realise I was lying to you and that I can't keep pretending being someone who makes you happy.”  
  
Mycroft looked down at John with astonishment, unable to speak.  
  
“You regained your two pounds,” Mycroft pointed out for the lack of a real answer.  
  
John laughed slightly at the odd statement, ”I regained five and lost three.”  
  
“Within the last month?” Mycroft searched John's smile, making him look so young and old at the same time – youthful joy and the weight of the world carved in deep lines around his eyes.  
  
“It was easy to gain weight in between Sherlock's short cases. It was hard to keep it on when I kept thinking about you and had nothing else to do over the last week or so.”  
  
Mycroft's mouth went dry but he managed to ask the question nonetheless, “Thinking about me?”  
  
Now John lowered his eyes and blushed slightly. “I've been wondering. I've been trying to think. I've been trying to trace the steps we might have taken from that moment on the balcony. But I couldn't imagine kissing you. I mean literally. I drew a blank. I had no idea how it would be.”  
  
Carefully Mycroft placed his hand on John's over their already joined hands and John glanced sideways, blinking rapidly.  
  
“Now I'm almost afraid of it,” John admitted. “I don't like running head over heels into something that I have no idea of.”  
  
“You don't have to,” Mycroft said, hating the slightly desperate tone in his voice, almost squeaky.  
  
“I... can we go back to dating?” John asked hopefully and looked back up at Mycroft. “It's unfair to you, I know, but I... I need time to find out how I feel... with you.”  
  
“How you feel with me?” asked Mycroft, voice steady again. Curiosity worked wonders on him.  
  
John immediately looked up at him. “Comfortable, safe, appreciated. But also insecure and small. I need to know if there's more.”  
  
“Dinner and a movie,” Mycroft began, drawing the words out, “would be the customary course of action when dating, I think.”  
  
“You wouldn't be dragging me out tonight, would you?” John laughed.  
  
“No,” Mycroft smiled and shook his head, worrying about the dark circles under John's eyes. “Alas the best I could offer you here is a DVD on my notebook.”  
  
To Mycroft's surprise John seemed to take that as a suggestion, “That would be nice, actually. It would be different, something a little more... how I am.”  
  
“You would enjoy just sitting on the couch and the relatively small picture of a notebook screen?”  
  
And John nodded and smiled, his carefree smile showing his front teeth. “Yeah, I would. That and some take-away and I would be pretty content.”  
  
“Plebian and... cheap,” Mycroft muttered, brows furred, “but if it makes you happy how could I possibly consider denying you this?” He wanted to brush his fingers over John's cheek, but his left hand was caught between John's and his right didn't want to move from where it was resting on John's. Maybe it was for the better that he kept them there for now, a thought came to him, the last time this precise movement had chased John away for weeks. “Can you organise the food?”  
  
“Sure,” smiled John, astonished that Mycroft would actually do this for him. “How does pizza sound? Or would you like something Asian? Indian or Thai?”  
  
“As I assume the dinner will take place during the movie pizza might be the more practical choice.”  
  
At this John chuckled, “You're unbelievable.”  
  
“But right,” smirked Mycroft. “I have to warn you, though, the only DVD that I actually do own is 'The Life of Brian'.”   
  
Now John smirked, “You do? That's awfully close to normal sense of humour.”  
  
“It was a birthday present from my last assistant,” explained Mycroft, wondering why he did that. Such a delicate piece of information, so many implications, so many ways...  
  
“Don't tell me. Charged and executed for possession and probably use of a sense of humour while in service for Queen and country,” grinned John.  
  
Mycroft bit back a wince, “He died.” He wondered if he should give an explanation but his voice trailed off when he remembered that morning. “One morning on his way to work. On a free day, no less.” His heartbeat was picking up speed.  
  
“I'm sorry to hear that,” whispered John, feeling awful for making a joke about it, vaguely worried about Mycroft, his pupils dilated and breathing shallow.  
  
“You couldn't have known,” replied Mycroft, managing a smile. “I should start looking for the DVD and you should find us dinner.”  
  
Again John chuckled and they let go of each other's hands. “Anything you don't want on your pizza? Any allergies?”  
  
Mycroft contemplated for a moment, “Nothing with fruit or peanuts. Save for tomatoes of course.”  
  
John nodded and Mycroft got up and turned to go upstairs to his study. He sat down at the desk and opened the bottom drawer. The DVD lay there, unsuspecting and innocent. Yet it brought a myriad of emotions back. The way he had been able to laugh for a few weeks and enjoy actual human interaction, the joy, the happiness – and the deep sense of loss and desperation and the world being pulled out beneath his feet when he saw Henry Charles McAndrew's name on the list that fluttered onto the papers piling high on his desk on the morning of July 7th 2005. A simple printout of the identified dead from the explosion near Tavistock square.   
  
A need for revenge had burned in Mycroft for almost a week until he had realised there was no revenge he could get, not ever, and he had collapsed inside, died a little and mourned all just in himself, all the while he had suffered Henry's sister's silent accusation. He hadn't been able to tear his eyes from the picture taken of Henry and his newly born niece at 3am that morning. Mycroft had realised, too late, how he had fallen for the charming young Scotsman with the dark hair and hazel eyes. He had resolved to never do that again. He would never get close to anyone again.  
  
As he kept staring down at the DVD, Mycroft wondered how he had come to care  so deeply about one Dr John Watson with his sandy hair and blue eyes, adorable and adoring on his best and bitter and biting on his worst.  
  
With his breath held Mycroft picked the DVD up and stared at it, a shuddering sigh escaping him.  
  
He would not lose John this way. Whatever would become of them, he would make sure he was all right, he would live and he would go unharmed.  
  
Before he returned downstairs Mycroft tried to calm down. He turned his thoughts to John, to the most unusual date that was about to commence shortly in his living room and a chuckled escaped him. He picked up the notebook and returned downstairs, his heart beating confidently in his chest.

 

* * *

  
  
“The pizza arrived just two minutes ago,” announced John. “I'm just about to get plates.”  
  
Somehow Mycroft didn't find the strength to speak at the moment and simply set up the notebook on the coffee table, next to the pizza boxes. John found him standing in front of the sofa, contemplating the piece of furniture and the plug on the end of the notebook's power cord in one raised hand.  
  
“Is everything all right?” chuckled John, setting down the plates.  
  
Mycroft turned, “There is a socket behind the sofa. I'm contemplating the easiest way to get there.”  
  
“Let me do that,” grinned John, taking the plug from Mycroft. “We might need napkins.”  
  
Mycroft nodded. “Wine, with the... dinner?”  
  
“Excellent idea,” smiled John and Mycroft went back to the kitchen. When he returned to the living room he found John on hands and knees, obviously getting back out from under the sofa and unknowingly waving his bottom in Mycroft's direction as a result. Quickly he put the wine, glasses and napkins down and began to pull all curtains shut.  
  
“The proper atmosphere?”  
  
“Yes, if you would take care of the one behind the sofa?” Mycroft told himself that the request wasn't an excuse to see John kneeling on the furniture and bending forward to reach the curtains, thus accentuating his backside again.  
  
Finally the curtains blocked out most of the light and both men sat down side by side on the sofa. John made the movie work on the computer, happy that it was an oversized 21” version, while Mycroft poured the wine.  
  
Before the started the film John got a plate and gestured towards the pizza. “I got us a Quadro Stagione and Caprese. Which do you prefer?”  
  
“I'm not picky,” Mycroft replied and John shot him an amused glance. He was handed a piece of the Pizza Caprese and John took one as well. They sat back and John started the movie.  
  
Mycroft was still mildly amused by the movie and John laughed out loud and kept pointing out bits he enjoyed particularly. Not quite halfway through the movie they had finished off the pizzas and about half of the wine. They had also been sitting side by side rather closely for some time and Mycroft was finally feeling comfortable and bold enough to put his arm around John's shoulders. After a moment of hesitation John leaned into the touch, resting his head on Mycroft's shoulder.  
  
In total and utter disbelief Mycroft glanced down at John and his breath hitched. At the tender age of thirty-seven he might just be getting the hang of dating.

 

* * *

  
  
At the end of the movie John was so tired he could barely hold his eyes open. He yawned and stretched, revealing a bit of pale skin over the waistband of his trousers.  
  
“There is a room at your disposal upstairs if you would like to stay over?” Mycroft suggested.  
  
John hesitated for a moment, “I don't have anything for a sleep over with me.”  
  
“I have taken the liberty of keeping a set of spare pyjamas for you ever since you moved in with Sherlock. It's become a habit for me to prepare for him or his... friends.” There was a long pause before Mycroft spoke again, seemingly a little uneasy about what he was going to say, “Also, I have kept your toiletries from last time in the hope you would maybe someday stay over again.”  
  
“It's fine,” whispered John, placing a calming hand on Mycroft's thigh. “If I'm not imposing on you I would not mind staying over. I'd like to, as a matter of fact.”  
  
Mycroft was treating him to a rare, wide and genial smile. “I'm glad that you're here,” he finally whispered, letting his eyes rest on John's hand. Finally his own hand came to rest over John's. “I was afraid you wouldn't want to see me again after the theatre.”  
  
“I'm sorry for those four weeks. I was an idiot. I didn't know what to tell you.” Truth to be told he didn't know what to say now, either. If this was a date it was the most innocent he had had since his first girlfriend. They had been twelve and holding hands – actually, they had been just like John and Mycroft now. None of them had known how to take things a step further and right now John could still not imagine Mycroft kissing anyone. His arm around John's shoulder felt nice – and to prove the point John leant into the embrace some more – but to imagine anything else, to imagine more seemed almost blasphemous.   
  
“I want you to know,” Mycroft's voice broke the silence, a firm, decisive tone about it, “should this fail I still want to be your friend.”  
  
John bit his lip. “Normally someone would say that after it failed and it would never work.”  
  
“Normally,” came the reply in the smooth, amused tone.   
  
John smiled and nudged Mycroft gently. “Well, yes, normally. I'm really ready to crash now.”  
  
“Do you remember the way upstairs to the guest room? I should put things in order down here,” Mycroft apologised, also not quite sure how someone went about bringing a date to bed.  
  
“It's all right,” smiled John.  
  
With a silent sigh Mycroft turned his head to John and rested his face against John's head. “Good night, my dear. The pyjamas are on the bed.” With that he unwrapped himself from John and their embrace, getting up.  
  
“Good night,” replied John, getting up himself. He slowly ascended the stairs and slipped into the guest room. Somehow John couldn't brush off the feeling that it hadn't changed at all since he had taken that shower so many weeks ago – save for the pyjamas, of course. John contemplated staying up and intercept Mycroft on his way to bed but when he had brushed his teeth and changed he couldn't resist the soft, warm covers any more. He slipped in and told himself he would listen for Mycroft's steps on the stairs. He was asleep after five minutes.


	9. Expectations and Preparations

The next morning John woke to the early rays of sunshine which was unusual in two points. Usually he never got up that early and he remembered not having been in bed before ten the night before. He kept lying on his back, listening to the faint sounds outside, the singing birds – the sounds downstairs?  
  
On second thought it didn't seem unusual for someone like Mycroft to be an early bird on principle. So John quietly slipped out of bed and back into last night's clothes. He looked back at the warm bed and the soft pillows with a distant longing. But the thought of Mycroft downstairs and spending the morning with him brought him to the door quicker than a promise for Sherlock to clean up the flat. He was a little confused when he stepped out into the hallways to see Mycroft coming towards him from his bedroom.  
  
“Mycroft, you...? But I thought...” John began and the faint sounds of the piano drifted up to them from the living room. He spared a thought for Mycroft's appearance, though, the other obviously still in his pyjamas, a dressing gown thrown over it and slippers on his feet.  
  
Mycroft's expression changed from that of confusion to that of exasperated disdain and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should have known,” he muttered to himself before he turned to John and smiled at him. “For a moment I had wondered if maybe you were up already. But it has become quite obvious this... is somebody else's doing.”  
  
Together John and Mycroft went downstairs, John oblivious to what Mycroft was referring to. He, too, sighed when they came into the living room to the Moonlight Sonata and familiar black locks behind the grand piano. The piece came to a conclusion and Mycroft growled an annoyed, “Sherlock. What is your business here? I didn't give you a key so you could torment me.”  
  
The detective grinned. “You didn't return John last night, I got worried.”  
  
“Wait a second. Return me?” John asked, flustered. Mycroft stepped in behind him and put a hand on John's shoulder.  
  
“John stayed out of his own free will.”  
  
“Never mind,” stated Sherlock. “Can I have my flatmate back now?”  
  
Now John huffed. “I'll decide when I'll get back, thank you very much.”  
  
Sherlock changed his tactic in a second, got up and smiled, “You were always so much more proficient on the piano than I was, my dear Mycroft. Would you not like to play us a tune?”  
  
“Don't try to flatter me, Sherlock,” huffed Mycroft and John grinned. It was the first time he saw the older Holmes phased by anything Sherlock had said. John, too, seemed surprised – thought on second thought it was obvious. Sherlock and his violin, Mycroft and the piano...  
  
Now Sherlock was resorting to flattery so Mycroft would comply, even if only so Sherlock would shut up, “No, really. It's been a long time since I've heard you play. And I guess John would enjoy it, too.”  
  
John was too surprised to speak and after a short, almost dirty look in Sherlock's direction Mycroft walked over to the piano and sat down. Sherlock, in turn, walked over to John.  
  
With a sigh Mycroft began to play, heavy accords with a light 'afterthought'.  
  
“The Pathetique, first movement,” whispered Sherlock. “It's a Grave beginning with an Allegro following. He always had a sense for the dramatic.”  
  
John was amazed when Sherlock's eyes fell shut after a moment and John looked down to see his fingers tap lightly against his thigh in rhythm with the music. He was surprised to see such a sensual, responsive side to his friend. He saw this side mirrored when he looked over to Mycroft, lids heavy and almost falling shut, totally immersed in his playing. There might be something the brothers had in common after all.  
  
Mycroft stopped about halfway through the sonata and sighed. “Breakfast, anyone?”  
  
“Fine,” muttered Sherlock, annoyed at the sudden stop.  
  
“Let me help,” John smiled at Mycroft. All three of them walked over to the kitchen and Sherlock dropped in a chair at the table immediately.  
  
Mycroft gave a few short commands and John got eggs, milk tomatoes and bacon from the fridge, while Mycroft brewed tea.  
  
“Sherlock, be a darling and set the table,” Mycroft said and Sherlock got up, a little indignant at the command. John turned to look at Mycroft who had a twinkle in his eye.  
  
This didn't go unnoticed. “You are laughing at me!”  
  
“Oh, why would we?” John replied, now a twinkle in his eye, “... darling.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and got three sets of cutlery.  
  
“Scrambled or fried?” John asked, and the brothers agreed on scrambled.  
  
Mycroft took over at the stove after a moment and John served the tea, somewhat amused about the fact that he knew how both brothers would take it.  
  
Ten minutes later they sat at the table tucking into scrambled eggs with bacon, fried tomatoes and toasted, buttered rye. Sherlock's eyes were dancing back and forth between his brother and his flatmate, trying to figure out what exactly was going on.  
  


* * *

  
  
After breakfast Mycroft excused himself to get dressed, while John and Sherlock sat down in the living room.  
  
“What are you doing here?” John asked after a small staring contest.  
  
“I was worried,” replied Sherlock, playing with the leaves of a potted plant.  
  
“You weren't!” accused John. “You knew I was here, you never worry when I spend the night somewhere you don't know.”  
  
“Exactly,” replied Sherlock, now concentrating on John.  
  
“Do you really think,” John asked, “that Mycroft would have done something to harm me?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “Not harm you, maybe.”  
  
“You're just a nosy bastard,” sniggered John. “And possessive. Look, is this about Mycroft or about anyone I might want to spend time with? I guess it's about Mycroft. I'm not spying on you for him.”  
  
“And I told you that I don't care if you do,” replied Sherlock.  
  
“Then what is it?” exclaimed John.  
  
“You're drawing out your acquaintance far longer than necessary,” Sherlock offered as an explanation. John didn't get it.  
  
That very moment Mycroft came back to the living room and John couldn't help but smile. That annoyed Sherlock somewhat, things weren't going according to his plan. John shouldn't be this happy to be around Mycroft. Not after last night. Sherlock scowled.  
  
“Sherlock,” began Mycroft, both eyebrows rising, “I trust you will be all right on your own for a while? John, would you like to go outside with me?”  
  
John nodded and got up, following Mycroft to the large window that wasn't a window but a door leading out to a generous but plain garden. It was mostly grass framed by tall hedges. There was a small pavilion at one of the far edges and John recognised the cast iron chairs and table. He could actually picture Mycroft quite well sitting there having tea and reading a book. He liked the picture.  
  
“Surprisingly, this wasn't all that awkward. Breakfast with your brother, I mean,” began John, letting his gaze skim over the grass.  
  
Mycroft smiled and put a hand on the small of John's back, “After all the time living with him surely your definition of awkward has... suffered.”  
  
The doctor turned slightly towards the other and smiled widely, “Yes, yes it did.” Their sides were touching and John leaned a little into Mycroft.  
  
“I'm happy to have you here,” Mycroft whispered, now turning to John. They were almost facing each other and John raised a hand to Mycroft's shoulder. “I'm not experienced, I'm not easy to be with, I'm not open or affectionate. I appreciate that you're obviously going to try nonetheless.”  
  
“You're unique,” smiled John. “And I've had worse dates.”  
  
“I can hardly imagine,” replied Mycroft, smiling fondly at the shorter man.  
  
John's hand came up to rest on Mycroft's waist and Mycroft's hand came up to John's upper arm. The doctor had his head tilted up, blinking rapidly, and Mycroft's eyes had widened, his breath coming quicker. Just when he began to lean down the door to the living room flew open.   
  
“Can we leave already?” Sherlock asked and Mycroft and John shuffled apart like a bolt of lightning had just passed between them.  
  
“In a minute,” mumbled John, head lowered and blushing.  
  
Mycroft on the other hand stood tall and proud, disdain showing on his usually schooled features. When John glanced up he wondered how quickly the affection had passed from Mycroft's features. It was almost heartbreaking.  
  
Huffing Sherlock disappeared into the living room again and the two men on the patio turned to each other again.  
  
John sighed, “We better leave, before he does something stupid and sets fire to the carpet.”  
  
Mycroft smiled at that. “Should I call for a car?”  
  
John softly shook his head, “We'll take a cab or the bus, we'll be fine.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Mycroft inquired again, his right hand buried deep in his pocket. He wanted to reach out for John, touch him again, but he was afraid.  
  
“Yes, I am.” Their moment had passed, John realised sadly.  
  
Finally Mycroft pulled his hand out of his pocket and took John's hand with it. John felt something hard in Mycroft's hand press against his palm. “Come by whenever you want,” whispered Mycroft and withdrew his hand.  
  
John looked down at his hand and found a key there. “I don't know what to say. Thank you.”  
  
Mycroft smiled slightly, eyes cast down. “You're welcome, always. I hope to see you soon.”  
  
“You will,” replied John, a little unsure what to do. He raised his hand to caress his cheek, but Mycroft caught John's hand mid-motion and raised it to his lips to kiss it.   
  
“Good bye, dearest.”  
  
“Good bye,” replied John, brushing his fingers over Mycroft's cheek when his hand was released. With another smile he left.  
  
John couldn't stop smiling all the way back to Baker Street in the cab, staring at the key in his hand, shifting it in the light, admiring the changing reflexes of the light on it.   
  
“Your own key,” sighed Sherlock. “Dear lord, you're both stupid.”  
  
John frowned a little and pulled out his own keys and worried the key onto a ring there. “Is that your deduction?”  
  
“Yes. You're smitten with him, he's so besotted with you. It throws you both off course, he's given you a key to his house. But obviously you spent the night in the guest room. You probably haven't even kissed yet. It doesn't make sense. You're both idiots.”  
  
“We're not,” replied John after a moment. “We care about each other and enjoy each other's company. He just wants me to come over and...”  
  
“Don't bother. It's very obvious you want more than company. Why cling to this?”  
  
“Because some people like to cling to this feeling. We like this feeling.”  
  
“Normal people. You. Not Mycroft!” Sherlock spat out.  
  
“So, that's it. You're concerned about Mycroft. You're concerned he's changing. Is that it?”  
  
Sherlock pulled his coat closer around himself and turned away from John.

 

* * *

  
  
By the time they arrived at Baker Street Sherlock's mood had passed and he got back to his laptop and his experiments in the kitchen.  
  
“You never told me that you played the piano as well,” John finally asked.  
  
“The piano? Of course I do. It's the easiest way to start playing an instrument. Besides, my brother played it. So, as a small boy I was always fascinated by Mycroft's playing.”  
  
“I can't quite see you as a small boy,” admitted John.  
  
“Hm, yes,” answered Sherlock, totally engrossed in whatever it was that he was doing.  
  
That was, John thought almost bitterly, why Sherlock had interrupted their first kiss? So John could sit in his armchair and be ignored?

 

* * *

  
  
At least John found the time to brush up on his knowledge regarding safer sex between male partners. He told himself it was purely research, but most of his research ended with him closing a video after it had played for a few minutes, somewhat flushed and sometimes more than just a little hard. Still, when he tried to imagine peeling Mycroft out of the fine fabrics of his suit, he had no idea what to expect. It was almost frustrating.  
  


* * *

 

 

On Wednesday during lunch break he finally found the courage to seek out one of stores he had looked up on the internet. A place that specialised in the needs of men desiring men.  
  
When he entered he found the sudden urge to turn around and never come back, but he imagined this was just another Afghanistan. He would be fine until someone shot him.  
  
John winced at the mental image of someone jumping out, cum shooting him. It was disturbing to what thoughts his mind was driven by the constant trying to follow Sherlock's train of thought.  
  
“Can I help you?” a young man finally asked him. Bleach blond hair, sleeveless shirt, taller than John and very toned. He frankly looked like a lot of the guys on the posters, DVDs and packages looked like. John felt inadequate.  
  
“I'm looking for supplies.” John cleared his throat and bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, hands folded behind his back and smiling daftly at the guy before him. He couldn't be older than twenty, John noted - and felt even more inadequate.  
  
“Supplies?” the guy now grinned, raising an eyebrow at John.  
  
“Condoms. Lubricant. Maybe a bit of advice.”  
  
“For a friend, I presume.”  
  
“For me and a friend. Possibly. I'm not sure if we're going to have sex, yet.”  
  
The young man was obviously surprised at John’ honest approach. “Is he interested?”  
  
John nodded. “Yes, I think so. Generally, at least.”  
  
“Then you are,” came the answer and the guy turned around, walking to the other end of the store.  
  
“No, actually I'm not. Not sure if I want to have sex with him,” John replied.  
  
“You're a romantic then.”  
  
“Probably. I just don't like getting into bed on the first date. It seems so trivial and needy. Although it would have spared me quite a few bitter nights filled with wanks.”  
  
John was wondering why he was telling all this to a stranger. They were walking by all sorts of things. Underwear, dildos, DVDs and magazines and came to an halt before a rack of leather accessories. Handcuffs, underwear, a riding crop not unlike Sherlock's... that was a thought that would be hard to get rid of. Worse was only the thought of Sherlock and Lestrade and the riding crop – he wondered if there was a way to unthink that.  
  
He could avert his eyes from the display and turn it to his right where he found the condoms and lube lined up. “Wonderful. Just a million of brands to chose from.”  
  
Now the blond guy grinned again. “What size is your friend?”  
  
John glanced warily at him. “My friend or my 'friend'?”  
  
“Depends on whom you're buying this for.”  
  
John sighed. “Frankly, I've got no idea. We're only dating right now and I have no idea who – if anyone – is going to need those. I definitely have no idea of his size.”  
  
“You're straight,” came the blunt statement, somewhat disapproving.  
  
“I'm contemplating being actively gay for a very special man right now,” John shot back. “Just because I do like women and have never been with a man before doesn't mean that I'm some second rate person! In fact I like guys. I just never got beyond sloppy handjobs in dark alleyways before.”  
  
The passionate speech had obviously gained him a few brownie points with the shopkeeper. “It's okay. I'm sorry. I guess I'm just a bit touchy on the subject of straight men...”  
  
“It's all right,” mumbled John. “I'm just a bit insecure about everything. I don't want to disappoint my friend, but then I'm here and I'm asking myself if this means that I'm wanting to get serious with him. I'm not quite convinced he would be.”  
  
“If he doesn't he's probably an idiot. If he does... I'm sure we can find you something with loads of pictures so you'll know what to do.” He picked out two packages of condoms. “Normal and large. Nothing's worse than finding you don't have the right size at hand. Extra thick, provides safety while still being sensitive. We can switch to the extra thin later.” Then a bottle of lube. “Sillicone based. It'll stay slick for at least half an hour on bare skin, definitely more in cavities. If you want to there's some flavoured as well. No? Okay, then...” Another small bottle, a spray this time. “Anal spray to help with relaxation. It can prevent painful cramping.” John stared down at the items in his hand and blushed slightly. “Now to the rest.”  
  
Almost unwillingly John followed the guy to another shelf and found a set of three different sized penis-shaped dildos thrust at him.  
  
“Guys aren't like girls. We're not made to be penetrated without a 'warning'. Maybe you should try these before. Get ready.”  
  
John nodded, wondering why he didn't draw a line at sex toys – whether he would ever draw a line. Now he could do nothing but take a book called 'Enjoying yourself and your partner' and 'Safer sex: It's not just condoms that matter' with him as well. In fact he wasn't all that unhappy about the advice. Least of all he wanted to hurt Mycroft and he doubted that the other man knew that much more about the subject than him. John stifled a laugh at the thought of him and Mycroft researching.  
  
“What's so funny?” grinned the blond guy while ringing up all the stuff.  
  
“I was just imagining for a second how I'm sitting in bed with my friend and we're just reading these books and point out the interesting passages or pictures to each other. Like an old couple...”  
  
If anything the shopkeeper's grin widened, “That's the spirit.”  
  
John paid for his purchases, rather more than he had wanted to, and left, still in a bit of a daze. It was only when he drew closer to the practice that he almost panicked and hid the bag quickly under his desk before telling Sarah he was back.  
  
Another problem came to him. How to hide everything from Sherlock? He doubted that it would keep Sherlock from searching his room if he found a dildo in a drawer.

 

* * *

  
Eventually John just tried acting normally. He had had the - quite ingenious - thought of washing the rubber stench of the dildos at work – it wasn't like someone would notice it between disinfectant and gloves, but Sherlock would – and discarded the package in the trash bins behind the practice.  
  
Then he strolled into 221B like any other day and found Sherlock hunched over an assortment of petri dishes and concentrating on the chemical reactions he was creating in them. John pouted for a moment when he found it almost too easy to smuggle the bag into his room.


	10. Guilty for my life, guilty of being shy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sarah talk. John and Mycroft finally get around to other things.

On Thursday John was still musing on whether Sherlock would find his new purchase, so he almost didn't notice Sarah standing in the door to his office around noon. She was nursing a cup of coffee and smiled knowingly.  
  
“Am I interrupting your daydreaming?”  
  
“Oh, not at all,” smiled John. Maybe it was a lie. But he hadn't thought of Mycroft specifically.  
  
“Are you gonna join me for a coffee and some biscuits or are you going out for lunch?”  
  
“Lunch?” John asked and realised that it was past twelve already. “No, not today. I thought I'd stay in and just have... actually I forgot about lunch altogether.”  
  
“Coffee and biscuits then,” grinned Sarah and John followed her to the small kitchen.  
  
Sarah was biting her lip until John was safely seated at the table, had a cup of coffee and nibbled on shortbread. “So, you're in love.”  
  
“Am I?” John asked, blushing slightly.  
  
“You're grinning this stupid grin whenever you think nobody's watching and you're missing lunch. You're sneaking about and you seem... happy?”  
  
“Happy,” mused John and he remembered the moments when Mycroft had touched him – soft, careful touches, warm hands. “I guess... yeah.”  
  
“So, who's the lucky girl?”  
  
Now John almost chocked on the biscuit, almost sprayed coffee from his nose. Sarah noticed his furious blush, his embarrassment.   
  
“No girl,” she stated.  
  
“No,” mumbled John into his coffee.  
  
“You got yourself a boyfriend. Should I be surprised or insulted?”  
  
John sighed, “It's not about you. It's just him. He's just... just...” He was lost for words. Mycroft was not easy to describe, especially not with just one word.  
  
“Then tell me about him. What does he look like?”  
  
“Tall. I guess,” mumbled John, still hiding behind his coffee, hiding his blush.  
  
Now Sarah chuckled. “Taller than you?”  
  
“Dark hair, blue eyes, a bit more on the... solid side. Civil servant.”  
  
“Prim suits and working 9-to-5? That sounds astonishingly normal. Almost boring.”  
  
“Only almost,” replied John. “He's Sherlock's brother.”  
  
“You're kidding me,” deadpanned Sarah. “Tell me that's a joke.”  
  
“It's not. It's crazy, right?” Now John was looking up at her with an adorable, helpless expression.  
  
“Maybe,” she smiled. “But maybe that's just how you work. So, I can figure how you met, but... how'd you figure you were into each other?”  
  
“He started dating me. I didn't notice for a long time. Then... I did. I didn't know what to do about it for a while.”  
  
“Now you do.”  
  
“Yes, I think so.”  
  
“Is he the first guy you're dating?”  
  
“Dating... yes,” replied John.  
  
“And did you get to spend the night on his sofa, yet?”  
  
John couldn't tell if that obvious stab at their failed relationship had come out of hurt or was simply the dismissive comment it sounded like. “As a matter of fact, yes.”  
  
“Just the sofa? No chance to inspect his... other qualities yet?”  
  
“Are you asking me if I slept with him? Is this what women usually talk about? Because if it is I'm utterly and totally terrified of you now,” John back-paddled.  
  
“Come on, John,” she teased. “I'm a doctor, you can tell me.”  
  
Somehow John found himself reminded of Sherlock's inquisitive nature. “No. We didn't.”  
  
“So, the big boy got some virtues. Dropped the blushing maiden off on the doorstep with only a chaste good night kiss.”  
  
“Not even that,” mumbled John and he distantly thought he should be somewhat disturbed by Sarah's 'blushing maiden' metaphor. But then he should also be disturbed by the contents of the bottom drawer of his bedside table.  
  
“You haven't kissed yet?” she asked, genuinely surprised. “You've been dating how long?”  
  
“I've been aware for a little more than a month.”  
  
“You're such a tease!” she grinned and shook her head. “Or is it him?”  
  
“A combination of both, I think. I'm not sure how I feel and he is...” he trailed off.  
  
Tall, yes. Dark haired, yes. Inquisitive, blue eyes that went right through John, seemingly a little slanted and their thin, but nevertheless sensual, amber lashes accentuating that shape. High and straight eyebrows, appearing fine and a bit frayed. His wide, thin-lipped mouth with the corners always seeming to curl in amusement or disdain, sardonically or benevolently. His fine, dark hair, receding hairline. Long, straight nose. Incredibly long neck that John wanted to cover in kisses and love bites. His elegant hands that felt so right on his body. His silken drawl that sent shivers down John's spine when Mycroft even just used the plainest terms of endearment.  
  
“Sherlock's brother,” Sarah helpfully supplied. “But you're in love with him.”  
  
“You said so,” replied John. “We've only been seriously seeing each other for a week or so.”  
  
“Then it's just a matter of time until you'll use your charms to seduce him.”  
  
John blushed. “I'm not sure. Maybe. It's still so confusing.”  
  
“I think you'll find a way,” grinned Sarah and got up. “Have another biscuit. Butterflies and love alone make a rather lacking lunch.”

 

* * *

  
  
By Friday morning John was missing Mycroft more than anything and his talk with Sarah the previous day hadn't actually helped that. Sherlock on the other hand was actively driving him up the wall – even more than he usually was. One could be the result of the other, John mused, or maybe it was a coincidence. Nevertheless, something had to be done about it.  
  
He was staring at his phone for almost three hours, mostly in passing by, before he found the strength to pick it up and dial the number.  
  
“Hi, it's me. John.” This shouldn't be so hard with someone he probably loved.  
  
The voice on the other end seemed concerned, “Hello, John. Is something wrong?”  
  
“No, not really. It's actually pretty stupid now that I think about it...”  
  
“I'm used to the average idiocy imposed on me by the world. Just tell me.”   
  
“I just need some time off, would you mind if I stayed with you for a night?”  
  
“Not at all,” came the reply from Mycroft's end of the line. “I will be home around nine. Make yourself at home until then. I will make sure there will be food in case you want dinner.”  
  
“I'll be fine. I just want to see you. And a nice, quiet night, if possible.”  
  
There was a slight pause before Mycroft finished, “I'm looking forward to seeing you.”

 

* * *

  
  
Mycroft arrived at five past nine and found John lying on the couch, listening to Mycroft's favourite Beethoven CD. He had his eyes closed, hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles and lying over one armrest and one foot swaying softly with the music.  
  
“Have you been waiting long?” Mycroft stood in the doorway, fondly smiling at John.  
  
John jumped up immediately and rushed over to greet Mycroft, a wide smile on his face. He took one of Mycroft's hands in his and gave him an adoring look. “It's good to see you.”  
  
Mycroft was insecure, looking down at his hand in John's warm grasp. “I've missed you,” he admitted quietly. He was silently drinking in the sight of John, in a dark blue shirt and dark blue jeans. He looked good like this and Mycroft found himself wondering what he might find under...  
  
“I... I am just going to slip into something more comfortable,” he announced quickly.  
  
“Okay. I could make some tea if you want to.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Mycroft tensed a little, placing his hand on John's shoulder. “I'll be back in a minute.”  
  
John let go of Mycroft's hand. “Sure, take your time.”  
  
Both of them went in different directions, Mycroft upstairs and John to the kitchen. With each step upstairs doubt surfaced in Mycroft. Walking down the hall he gazed into the open guest room and saw a small, unopened bag on the bed. A smile played on his lips but an uncertain fear gripped him. He went on to his bedroom, carefully putting his jacket on a clothes hanger and picking up his dressing gown. With a sigh he put it on, staring at himself in the mirror in the adjacent bathroom, his reflection eerily framed by the door frame and the mirror’s own limits – a pale face, receding hairline, obviously, if he were an actor, he would play the character parts, the villains, not the charming and eligible lovers. For a moment Mycroft closed his eyes to block out the almost painful sight. He quickly turned and went downstairs before this doubt could consume him.  
  
John smiled when he caught sight of Mycroft, “Is that something more comfortable?”  
  
“Yes, it is,” replied Mycroft, “Why?”  
  
John walked over to Mycroft, loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons. “That's better,” he grinned and Mycroft couldn't help but smile in return. “Tea's ready in a minute.”  
  
While John went to get the tea Mycroft sat down at the small table, staring out into the night.   
  
John returned from the kitchen with a tea tray. He poured Mycroft and himself tea before he sat down, smiling widely.  
  
Mycroft sipped at his cup, pleasantly surprised, “This is tea is excellent.”  
  
“Mrs Hudson taught me,” John explained. “She makes the best tea I've ever had.”  
  
Mycroft slowly pushed his right hand in the direction of John's left. John noticed and moved his own hand to meet Mycroft's, their fingers entwining. He brushed over Mycroft's thumb with his own before looking back up at Mycroft. “So, how was your day?”  
  
“As usual,” Mycroft replied, still looking down at their joined hands. He tore his eyes away from them and looked up at John's face, “Not much to do, no wars to start.”  
  
“Sherlock will be happy to hear that.”  
  
“How is he?” Mycroft asked more out of impulse than interest.  
  
“Fine, I guess. Less annoyed with me since I stopped brooding.”  
  
John kept caressing Mycroft's hand with his thumb and tilted his head to the side. “One thing always confused me... this ring. Why are you wearing a wedding ring?”  
  
“Simply,” Mycroft stated and sipped at his tea again. “I was married for almost fifteen years.”  
  
“You?” John gasped, quickly averting his eyes. “Well... that was unexpected.” He did note the past tense with some relief, but on the other hand had somehow, foolishly, seen himself in the role of the experienced, open, albeit broken, lover. Teaching, leading and reassuring Mycroft about love.  
  
“I couldn't let my personal disinterest in a relationship interfere with the proliferation of my genes. Giselle was a nice girl from an all girls college, barely twenty and not uninterested in what I had to offer. We would produce offspring and stay together as long as the circumstances were tolerable.”   
  
This came as a shock to John. “You basically married your unborn children's nanny?”  
  
Inwardly Mycroft cringed at how John hat put it. “No. It was very clear, in the case of a divorce I would pay child support as well as tuition. She was free to chose whatever path in education she wanted to pursue while we were married so there would be no need for her support after we split. She got a degree in French and German and is now teaching at her old university.”  
  
“How convenient!” John huffed, not letting go of Mycroft's hand but turning his head away.  
  
Mycroft chose a very soft tone to continue, “John, I always knew I would never be able to marry a woman for good. Yet I could not bear to see the gifts given to me by nature go to waste by the celibate life of one unable to love whom he should and unable to be with whom he loved. If there had ever been anyone by that time.”  
  
John raised an eyebrow. “She was a beard then.” He should be angry, he realised, he should be angry at Mycroft at how he had used another human being! Instead he was merely irritated.  
  
Mycroft was confused, tilting his head slightly, “A... beard?”  
  
“You're gay and she was your evidence you weren't,” John explained. His voice was a little colder than it had been before, but it felt unnecessary to get worked up about things gone by.  
  
“A very fertile evidence, if you must. But in the end it doesn't matter what my sexual preferences are. I have insured my genes have reached the next generation and can now go to enjoy life in any way I chose to. I probably wouldn't have acted any differently were I not... gay.” Mycroft hated those quaint labels. They came in handy with ordinary people, but in his home he didn't feel a need to categorise himself. “I find it difficult to be with people in general. I didn't want to wait for a possible love-of-my-life situation. It's unrealistic and illogical. A lot of people settle for... less than they want or what they deserve in life. This is not all that different.”  
  
John drew a conclusion, “It's all just transport, isn't it? For your brain.”  
  
“No,” Mycroft admitted. “Not everything is transport. And I'm not heartless. I do... love my children. And I care very much for you. However it is... difficult for me to express all this. I could have pretended to love Giselle – or anyone else for that matter – if it was all the same to me. But it wasn't. And it isn't.”  
  
There was silence and John felt nothing but cold. Something primal, something ugly took hold of him and forced the next words out of his mouth, “Sherlock doesn't think you – or I, for that matter -  were supposed to care. He said we should just go through with it so we'd could focus again.”  
  
For someone ruling the country Mycroft felt he lacked a meaning now, “Get through with it?”  
  
“We should have sex. Get rid of the sexual tension. He might have a point, sex is a good stress relieve. Hormones are released, social needs fulfilled.” John knew very well he was babbling – cruelly – by now but only could stop when Mycroft put his second hand over John's.  
  
“As I said, not everything is transport to me. I know how to enjoy certain aspects of life, some even a little too much. However, intimacy and... sex were never one of them.” Mycroft was tense and stared out of the window into the black of the night.   
  
John was surprised at Mycroft's openness even in the face of John's bitter side. Watching Mycroft's schooled features mellowed the aggressive beast at the back of his mind. He couldn't quite keep his thoughts to himself, though.“Only the most necessary to ensure your genes would go on?”  
  
Now Mycroft turned his head again, an empty smile playing around his lips, the tension not leaving him, “More a chore than a pleasure. Although, there were certain moments with a certain pleasure. Just not... the proceedings itself. Always so mechanical and technical.”  
  
They were staring at each other for a moment. “I'm sorry, I guess I'm just a little... afraid to wake up one morning to find out... this is all just a joke. That it's all just pretend.”  
  
Now Mycroft was looking at him earnestly, giving John's hand a squeeze. “I never pretend.”  
  
John lowered his head, shaking it slightly. “I wish I'd never asked. I wish we could start this evening over.”  
  
“There is no use in regretting this now,” smiled Mycroft, his voice soft and coaxing. “Let's not look back, let us go forward.” And with a fond memory of John's weight against his side he suggested, “Let's go to the sofa.”  
  
John nodded, ashamed of himself. But Mycroft would have none of it, directed John to the sofa and sat him down. Within just seconds Mycroft gave in to his instincts, cradling John in his arms and resting his chin on the other's head.  
  
“I know who you are,” he whispered gently and John's arms sneaked around Mycroft under his dressing gown. Solid, warm Mycroft. Steady Mycroft.  
  
John smiled into the fabric of Mycroft's shirt. The warmth was soothing his demons and his fears.  
  
He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”  
  
“Hm?” Mycroft asked, John's words lost somewhere against Mycroft's chest.  
  
“Thank you,” John repeated when he dared to look up. “I hope you will still have me staying...”  
  
“Of course I do,” smiled Mycroft and when he repeated “I know you. I know who you are.”   
  
John for once felt safe and understood. Time went by and Mycroft finally wanted to ease the tension and change the topic, “Maybe we can go out for lunch tomorrow.”  
  
John didn't want to leave Mycroft's embrace, let alone the house. Even the prospect of doing so the next day felt wrong. “Or we could have lunch here. I make a wicked good chicken roast.”  
  
Now Mycroft was surprised and felt somewhat guilty. For John to do something as domestic as cooking... “Well, if you want to...”  
  
“I would like to cook for you,” John repeated his intention, oblivious to Mycroft's reservations.  
  
“Does that mean your therapist is wrong about your trust issues?”  
  
John chuckled and parted slightly from Mycroft. “My therapist never met one of the Holmes' brothers. She'd understand me if she had.”  
  
“It's easy to trust us?” The question was somewhere between surprise and self-mocking.  
  
“It's hard not to trust you. Trust is never an issue with you, there's no talking about trust. There are no promises made but they are always kept.”  
  
Those words brought a blush to Mycroft's cheeks and he seemed to push himself away a little.  
  
Despite the trust, John thought, closeness was another issue. But John finally knew he wanted to be close to Mycroft. So he leaned in again and instinctively Mycroft's arms came around John again. That wasn't enough for John, though, and he arranged Mycroft's hands on him. It wasn't that much of a coincidence when one hand ran down and Mycroft's fingers slipped into the back of John's jeans. Mycroft flinched a little and pulled his fingers up, but then smile at John. “Sorry.”  
  
“No, it's okay,” smiled John innocently. “I'm really enjoying myself – and I like your touch. I just forgot you're new to this.”  
  
There was the faintest blush creeping onto Mycroft's pale cheeks, “Yes, but I did not neglect to broaden my knowledge on the subject.”  
  
“Broaden your knowledge.” It took a moment for the information to click into place. “Textbooks or... visual aids?” John's cheeks flared up as he thought of the bottom drawer of his bedside table, of his browser history, last night where he'd been alone in bed but had imagined Mycroft's hand to be over his as it had roamed his own body, taking time bringing himself close and Mycroft's hot breath as he whispered in John's ear as he came.  
  
Mycroft smiled slyly. “Well, as I've been repeatedly told, 'The internet is for porn.'”  
  
John laughed out loud, trying to hide his own embarrassment, “You've been researching porn then?”  
  
“I must say the stories were very predictable but the acts were very... imaginative, resourceful, even. There are a few things that, despite everything else, would be even interesting for purely scientific reasons.”  
  
“Want me to wear a lab-coat?” joked John, but sobered just seconds later. “Shit, sorry. This is ridiculous. This is not how it should be...”  
  
“If you want to... stop, that would be fine,” Mycroft assured him, not sure although if they had already started something that could or needed to be explicitly stopped.  
  
John winced, “I don't want to stop, actually. I'm just... this isn't how it should be. It should be romantic, it should be meaningful. This is more like a joke...”  
  
Mycroft lifted his hand and cupped John's cheek. “Don't ever think this isn't meaningful, John.”  
  
John's heart was beating fast as he was staring into Mycroft's earnest eyes. He was slightly leaning towards Mycroft and after almost painful seconds Mycroft met him in a careful kiss. They were perfectly still for a moment, but John's instincts and experience kicked in and his lips fell ajar, running the tip of his tongue over Mycroft's lips and seizing the opportunity to slip in between when they parted to let out a desperate whimper. John's hands couldn't stay still either, reaching up and fingers tangling in expensive fabrics, brushing over Mycroft's jaw and neck, running up from the back of Mycroft's neck up to the back of his head, spreading apart, combing though his hair, so soft and warm to the touch.  
  
Even with his limited experience, John thought, Mycroft was not at all a bad kisser. He was a bit reluctant at first but he responded to John's caress in like, his tongue exploring and teasing. When they parted John was panting and chuckling at the same time.  
  
“Well, this was definitely hot,” he whispered, fingers of one hand still drawing tiny circles on the back of Mycroft's skull, the other arm had sneaked around his waist, the hand resting on Mycroft's back. Mycroft's hands in turn were on John's cheek and hip.  
  
“As far as I remember 'hot' wasn't part of your list.”  
  
“I was just giving you an example of things that matter to me,” chuckled John, eyes closed.  
  
“And was it as meaningful as you wanted it to be?”  
  
“It was you,” smiled John, not sure what he actually meant. But it seemed to work as Mycroft smiled and closed his eyes, leaning forward and carefully brushing his lips over John's.  
  
A quick learner, John thought as Mycroft's touch sent shivers up and down his spine and a hot ball of need right down to his groin. So, this was how Mycroft's kisses felt, how they made him feel. Shivering with lust and desire, safe at the same time.  
  
“What now?” Mycroft asked, his voice a low purr, eyes half-closed, forehead resting against John's and fingers tangled in the dark shirt, having it almost pulled all the way out of John's trousers.  
  
John didn't want to move, didn't want to say anything. He just wanted to enjoy the warm body in his arms. “Maybe we should just... get a bottle of wine. Get comfortable. Talk...”  
  
“Talk?” smirked Mycroft, lowering his head to nibble on John's throat.  
  
“Among other things, maybe,” whispered John, shivering a little. Mycroft noted how pleasantly John's throat vibrated with the words under his lips.  
  
“What would you say,” he began, “when I told you that there's wine waiting upstairs by my bed?”  
  
“What are we waiting for?” He quickly rose and Mycroft followed his example, eventually leading John up the stairs and down the hall to his own bedroom.  
  
John stopped at the door and took the whole room in while Mycroft walked over, opening the bottle and pouring a generous amount in the two glasses on his bedside table. But John was more amazed by the rather dark room, an old, heavy bed with a solid, ornate frame of dark wood, the dark green, stripped wallpaper, two doors on John's right side – one ajar and showing a glimpse of a bathroom.  
  
Eventually Mycroft was standing on the far side of the bed – a navy and hunter green bedspread, pristine white and perfectly fluffed up pillows resting against the headboard.  
  
John covered the distance between himself and Mycroft and peeled him out his dressing gown and tie. The doctor dropped back on the bed and Mycroft sat down beside him. The taller man wrapped his arms around John and leaned back against the pillows, pulling a willing doctor with him. John pulled him into a soft kiss that deepened quickly.  
  
John began fumbling on Mycroft's waistcoat and after a moment nimble fingers joined his own, manicured and soft. They helped him with the pocket watch, pulling the precious – most certainly antique – accessory out of the pocket, putting it down on the bedside table. Then John brushed Mycroft's fingers away, and slowly unbuttoned the waistcoat and the first few buttons of his shirt, his lips never leaving Mycroft's. John smiled when his fingers met a thick patch of coarse hair underneath the shirt. He ran his hand under the fabric, feeling Mycroft's heartbeat under his breastbone, letting it slide further, fingertips brushing against a hardening nipple.  
  
“You are very eager,” said Mycroft, inching away a little. “But maybe we could... take it slow.”  
  
“Of course,” muttered John, suddenly self-conscious and scrambling somewhat upright. He reached over to the night stand for one of the wine glasses. However when he had it in his grasp he lost balance. In a moment of clouded judgement Mycroft was distracted by a patch of skin revealed by John's shirt slipping out of his waistband and pressed his mouth to the sensitive part over John's hip. John was surprised and ticklish, squealing rather girlishly and spilling the wine all over Mycroft.  
  
“Oh, bloody hell, sorry!” exclaimed John as they both jumped out of the bed, Mycroft's shirt and waistcoat soaked with wine, his skin glittering with the liquid. John couldn't deny a sudden urge to want to kiss and lick him clean.  
  
“It's fine,” assured him Mycroft, looking a bit sheepish. “I'll just have a quick shower. Five minutes at the most.” Without another word he disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. John sighed when he heard the water running a minute later. He went back to inspect the bed and found the sheets dry. After a moment he sat down and pulled off his socks, then lay down, hands folded and staring up at the ceiling. The water stopped, then started again. Finally it stopped for good and after a while the door to the bathroom opened and John turned his head to see.  
  
Mycroft looked different, wrapped in a dark green bathrobe that went down to his knees. He came over to the bed and lay down, on his back but head turned to John. His hair was slightly damp, his skin a little flushed from the hot water, his eyes wide with curiosity.   
  
John enjoyed the sight. He turned on his side and brushed a stray strand of hair away from Mycroft's forehead, letting his fingers go on and finally come to a rest on Mycroft's neck.  
  
“Why did you take off your socks?”  
  
“Because those are always the worst to get off... I want to be prepared.”  
  
Mycroft felt particularly bold and turned to John, kissing him more possessively than ever before. Instead of just clawing at the clothes as he had done before he let his fingers wander under John's shirt, fingers trailing the groove of his spine and upwards where it turned into bumps. In turn this time John only dug his fingers into the thick fabric of Mycroft's bathrobe, his feet rubbing against Mycroft's, one then lazily drawing up Mycroft's leg.  
  
When the need for oxygen got too much they parted, but faces not more than an inch apart. Despite their pause one of Mycroft's hands was drawing lazy circles on John's back, the other undoing the shirt buttons, then roaming the smooth skin underneath.   
  
“Am I doing it right?” Mycroft enquired, his eyes closed. John's skin felt so hot under his touch, so soft, so right.  
  
“Right?” John smiled. “There's nothing to do wrong. Just... go with whatever you're feeling.”  
  
“Shame,” came the unexpected reply. “And fear.”  
  
“You don't have to be ashamed. And not afraid. Just let go and trust you instincts.”  
  
“That... might be the problem. I'm ashamed of what I want to do and I'm afraid that you won't like it... that you won't like me anymore.”  
  
John whispered, “Do you trust me?”  
  
“Strangely enough... yes.”  
  
“Then trust me on this. You'll be fine. And I'll probably like whatever you want to do.”  
  
“But what if I won't? What if I can't please you?”  
  
“Don't worry about that,” whispered John, “I feel very pleased so far.”  
  
“You do?” Mycroft asked, almost surprised.  
  
So John took his hand and guided it down between them until Mycroft's palm was gently pressing against the front of John's jeans. “Aren't you?” he asked while guiding Mycroft's hand along the outline of hardening flesh.  
  
There was silence from Mycroft, only his heavy breathing audible in the room. He withdrew his hands and framed John's face with them. “Yes, I think I am,” he muttered and engaged John in another, lingering kiss.  
  
“This is a lot less confusing than the evening so far,” muttered John, smiling stupidly against Mycroft's lips. He used the moment to slip out of his shirt and Mycroft gave an approving grunt, one hand wandering down to John's hip. This was the first time John had ever had witnessed Mycroft so unravelled, so speechless. It was settling as a warm, pleasant feeling in his gut.  
  
“May I...?” whispered Mycroft. “I want to... I need to see you. Feel you.”  
  
It wasn't like this would not work in John's favour so he nodded. Also, Mycroft's heavy drawl, soaked with emotion did funny things to John. In a sudden need for more space he undid his jeans' button and zipper. This was going rather well so far.  
  
Softly Mycroft pushed John on his back and then crawled over him – kissing, then nibbling on his jaw and a bit later on his earlobe. John gave a low growl of approval and while Mycroft was working down his neck, John sneaked a hand between the two of them and pulled on the bathrobe's belt. The knot became undone and the robe fell open. Mycroft took a moment to gaze up at John's very self-satisfied expression.  
  
Mycroft turned back to his work, meticulously inspecting John's body from his scalp down to the waistband of his underwear. When his fingers, mouth and nose had done their work on the front he murmured a low “Turn around” and John complied. He was breathing heavily by now, hands over his head, grabbing the pillows. He felt some of Mycroft's weight on him, holding him down, and a hand sneaking down from his side to his hips, then under him and finally gently rubbing John's erection through his underwear.  
  
He moaned loudly, hips first moving forward to meet Mycroft's hand, then back to give him space for movement. Mycroft pressed even more against John then and was almost covering him completely now. To his own surprise John liked that very much – he felt somewhat secure, like he was wrapped in a thick blanket and shielded from the world. Now Mycroft's left hand ran up John's side, under his chest and came out next to John's face. John didn't think long, kissed each fingertip and began to suck on Mycroft's ring finger. Mycroft let out a moan and buried his face between John's neck and his right arm, grinding his hips against John's bottom.  
  
John felt Mycroft's hardness press against his butt, moaning involuntarily and grasping Mycroft's wrists to keep them in place. Yet there was something he needed to say.  
  
“I've never done that,” he whispered. “This is not the first time I've been intimate with a man, but I've never... done that.”  
  
“That doesn't matter, right now,” whispered Mycroft and gave John's balls a gentle squeeze before withdrawing his hand and turning John on his back. “It doesn't matter.”  
  
John raised his hand to Mycroft's face, brushing his thumb over his lips before letting it come to rest on the back of his head and pulling him into a kiss.   
  
Mycroft broke their kiss to pull John's jeans and pants down and John shook them off while pushing the bathrobe over Mycroft's shoulders. That revealed pale, freckled skin and John began to cover it in kisses. Mycroft stayed perfectly still, shivering with tension and withheld panting.  
  
“Shhhh,” hushed John. “It's all right.”  
  
“It is,” stated Mycroft. “But I'm a bit... excited.”  
  
So John reversed their roles, now Mycroft leaning against the pillows and John over him. He did feel a little self-conscious and unreal, though. He was naked and aroused, kneeling over the most powerful man he had ever known. Someone who could make people vanish, for their own sake or for the sake of others. Someone who could venture anywhere, despite never doing so. Someone who currently had his hands on John's hips and ran them down the sides of his thighs. After a moment of hesitation John actually looked at Mycroft.  
  
His shoulders were wide and almost bony, his chest covered in a thick patch of coarse, amber hair, although the rest of his body was sparsely haired at all. Only a small path led down from his chest, over his belly button, to the curly nest of his cock. A very nice example of a cock at that, John mused. His experience on the matter was limited, but he liked what he saw. A fully erect shaft of average length; thick and of a slightly red colour; leaning a little to the right and the head glistering with the first few droplets of cum. John felt a sudden urge to skid back and lean down, to kiss and lick at it. He mentally postponed it and promised himself that he had not just chickened out of giving his lover a blow-job.  
  
All of Mycroft's extra padding seemed to go around the middle, although John thought that either Mycroft's diet was going rather well or Sherlock's jabs had been over the top. Of course, Mycroft was probably far from being an underwear model, but John didn't find that unattractive. Despite whatever lost pounds Mycroft argued, John had gone a bit flabby himself after he had left the service. Running all across London with Sherlock and dinner at Angelo's every other day weren't the same as regular exercise and a balanced diet.  
  
“You're beautiful,” John breathed, finally kissing down that long neck he had admired for so long now. He found several sensitive spots on the way down, mouth then ghosting over nipples, licking and gently sucking. The hair felt funny against his lips and tongue, but it smelled nice, of soap and, John told himself, maybe something else underneath. Something simply Mycroft.  
  
One of Mycroft's hands had long since found it's way into John's hair as he was arching up into the touch, whimpering and moaning, pleading for more. Finally John straightened up, every sound and sensation having gone straight to his own cock, and he knew he wouldn't last long now.  
  
John straddled Mycroft's lap and slid forward until he and Mycroft were hip to hip. Instantly Mycroft's hands found their way down to John's waist, his hips, his bottom.  
  
Time seemed to stand still as a sensation hit John like a wave breaking on the shore. His legs were parted, Mycroft's hands slightly massaging his buttocks. He was spread open and theoretically all he would have to do was slip a bit more forward and he would be over Mycroft and he could be... would be... Mycroft would slide into him and it would be glorious, it would be so much better than that curious, experimental finger John had used once jerking off, because it would be Mycroft. In him. Fucking him.  
  
John quickly needed something, anything to distract him from that thought, from the fantasy. His gaze fell down to their shafts, lying side by side. “Look, they fit perfectly. Almost as if they're cuddling. I think they want to be friends,” he grinned and Mycroft let out a short laugh.  
  
“I think...,” Mycroft whispered and looked up.  
  
“If you're thinking we're doing something wrong,” interrupted John and leaned into the hand cupping his face now.  
  
“That's the point. I think I won't be thinking for much longer. Or anything else, for that matter.”  
  
“Then let's finish this,” whispered John affectionately and leaned in for a gentle kiss. He tried to take both their erections in one hand and failed miserably. “Okay... I'll do yours, you'll do mine?”  
  
Mycroft nodded, letting his hand slip from John's face and he gently, carefully wrapped it around John's cock. John began setting a slow rhythm that, between their synchronous movements, quickly picked up speed. With his left Mycroft gently forced John to keep looking at him. A small cry followed by a deep moan escaped Mycroft and hot liquid seeped through John's fingers. Mycroft's hand tensed uncontrollably around John's erection and the doctor quickly covered the hand with his, guiding the last few strokes that took him over the edge.  
  
The tension drained from John and he dropped against Mycroft.  
  
“I know, we'll probably stick together till the end of our days... but I don't want to move and clean up,” muttered John, face buried against Mycroft's neck and arms wrapped around his chest. Instinctively Mycroft's arms came up and worriedly he realised how cool John's sweaty back was to the touch.  
  
“Lay back and let me do it,” muttered Mycroft, trying to press a kiss against John's head but failing.  
  
With a disapproving grunt John let go of Mycroft and rolled on his back, eyelids heavy and threatening to fall shut.   
  
Mycroft quickly got up and went over to the bathroom. Water started running.  
  
Despite the tiredness John lazily picked up his sticky hand and contemplated it for a moment before carefully licking at the pearly, glistering liquid.  
  
He couldn't quite describe the taste. It was a bit salty, a bit bitter. It wasn't what he would file under tasty, but it wasn't disgusting either. The water running in the bathroom stopped and John dropped his hand over his chest.  
  
Mycroft returned with a wet towel and began to clean John. An approving “hm” escaped John when the towel carefully rubbed over his chest and stomach, eventually cleaning John's fingers, too. When he was finally done Mycroft simply dropped the towel over the edge of the bed and switched off the light. He lay on his side supporting himself on one elbow and tentatively placed his hand on John's chest. John cracked an eye open and grinned satisfied. Mycroft's expression was insecure and he blushed. But John seemed so relaxed and placid that it was bordering on smugness.  
  
“C'm here,” muttered John and pulled Mycroft completely down. “That was fantastic.”  
Slowly a smiled crept on Mycroft's face. John turned to him and they lay facing each other then.  
  
A thought came to John. “So the third date is the sex date.”  
  
“The third?” Mycroft chuckled. “We have met more often than that.” His eyes were searching John's face, drinking in every detail.  
  
John sneaked an arm around Mycroft. “Yes, we did, but I only figured they were dates when we were at the theatre. First date. On the second date you gave me the key – unusual, usually it's a kiss or making out. Now, this is our third date.” He emphasised his point with a quick kiss.  
  
Mycroft chuckled. “Have it your way, then.”  
  
“You're beautiful like this,” whispered John. “Just you, nothing else.”  
  
He pulled him a bit closer until Mycroft's pride and doubt gave way and he curled up against John, head against shoulder, his free arm and leg draped over the shorter man. In return John reached over Mycroft and pulled the bedspread around them. Wrapped in a tight cocoon of warm fabric and John it took only minutes for the older Holmes brother to fall into a blissful sleep.


	11. The Sound of my trembling, faceless Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intimacy is still hard for them, their doubts catching up and creating havoc.

Mycroft felt something was different from his normal mornings when he opened his eyes. The sun was only slowly creeping up, painting the room in a soft orange. He found John lying sprawled out on his back, snoring softly. There was something very peaceful about the picture, Mycroft mused.  
  
But his body demanded other things than him staying in bed and dotting over John, so he silently rushed to the bathroom. When he returned John was still asleep and Mycroft quickly slipped into his knee-length night-shirt without bothering with the pyjama bottoms he usually wore with it (and that were currently probably stuffed under some pillow John was resting on anyway) before he crawled under the covers. Although he enjoyed the unhindered view of all John had to offer him, he also had to think about John’s health and wrapped the bedspread back around him.  
  
That woke John up and he smiled a little confused at Mycroft. “Morning,” he whispered hoarsely.  
  
“Good morning,” smiled Mycroft.  
  
John looked at their situation, himself wrapped in the bedspread, Mycroft under the duvet. He grinned, “Is that some kind of chastity thing?”  
  
“I didn’t want to wake you but you couldn’t have been comfortable without a cover.”  
“Now that I’m awake, I could come under your blanket and you could warm me up,” he smiled, having turned to Mycroft and running his fingers through his hair. Stubbly, sleepy-eyed Mycroft, hair tousled and all over the place. Then John pulled a face, “First I’ll need the bathroom, though.”  
  
“The door on the left,” Mycroft supplied and watched with a smile and a blush as John got up and hurried into the en suite. His blush didn’t vanish when John came back a few minutes later and he quickly made room for John to join him under the covers. John slipped in and into Mycroft’s welcoming embrace. He shuddered pleasantly at the sudden warmth.  
  
“Pyjamas,” John stated and picked on the collar of Mycroft’s nightclothes.  
  
“Night shirt,” corrected Mycroft.  
  
“That’s very old school,” chuckled John.  
  
“Usually I wear pyjama bottoms with it,” replied Mycroft and John’s hand sneaked down to Mycroft’s thigh and pulled the fabric up until his fingers met Mycroft’s bare skin. “It has a somewhat ‘Indian flair’ to it, as my mother put it when she gave me the first set.” It was harder to find the words when John’s hand was on the back of his thigh, just below his bottom and an invisible force made Mycroft wrap his leg around John’s, desperate to deepen their touch.   
  
“Nevertheless. You need to get out of it,” John grinned and Mycroft happily helped John’s tugging fingers, although the he felt somewhat self-conscious when John’s hands eagerly ran over his body revealed underneath the fabric.  
  
“Don’t worry,” John reassured him when he felt Mycroft tense unpleasantly under his touch. “I don’t mind if there’s more of you to enjoy. You’re... cuddly, soft and warm.”  
  
Mycroft still couldn’t relax. All his self-confidence from last night had drained from him. He almost blushed when he remembered what they had done.  
  
“I’m not happy with myself.”  
  
With a little hesitation John smiled, “Who is?”  
  
Mycroft’s eyes drifted to the puckered scar on John’s shoulder. He leaned in to kiss it, exploring the texture with his lips and tongue. It would have almost seemed distasteful to do something like that to Mycroft before last night, but now it simply felt natural.  
  
John flinched, his hand instinctively finding its way into Mycroft’s hair. He felt the nearly overwhelming urge to pull Mycroft away, to make him stop.  
  
He remembered the first days after being injured all too well. The bloody, red tissue, swollen and tender. He remembered staring at it every day, for a long time every time, the nurses exasperated sighs when they had found he had worried the bandages off yet again. He knew it was an unhealthy obsession, it was part of why he was sent to therapy. Of course the limp he had developed afterwards was the main reason, but he knew, somewhere in his files, was also a record of his behaviour in hospital.  
  
He remembered how with every passing day, with every bit of tissue re-grown – but faulty, scared – the loathing in his heart sprouted a new root, digging in deep and painfully.  
  
Loathing because he got injured and invalided. Loathing because he was alive and so many of his friends were not. Loathing because he was confined to his bed and loathing because he would return to England any day now and he would leave so many behind who deserved to go more than he did. Loathing because he was in a hospital and could do nothing to make people better. Loathing because he had become useless in his own domain.  
  
According to Ella it was probably this loathing that had left him with a limp that could not be registered on an X-ray or MRI.  
  
The limp was gone. But some of the uneasiness remained and whenever he started to think about his shoulder again he felt it gain a better footing. He expected the world to be as put off by the reminder of his failure as he was himself. Instead Mycroft muttered, “You’re a hero.” between kisses and John flinched.  
  
“Heroes don’t exist,” he said flatly, automatically. “I haven’t suffered this for a reason, not for another human being. This happened because people are stupid.”  
  
“You got injured in the line of duty, in your service for Queen and country.” Mycroft looked up to meet John’s gaze. “You suffered this because you believed in something bigger than yourself, because you believed that what you were doing is right. Bravery might be another word for stupidity, but your sense of duty is very... arousing.”  
  
“Arousing,” whispered John, his breath shaky. Some of Mycroft’s words had been spot on (reminders of that day and that oath, stuffy dress uniform, overwhelming pride and sense of duty, the unmanly sting of tears in his eyes), but John swallowed those feelings quickly. “Should I get an ‘E.R.’ tattooed on the scar?”  
  
Mycroft chuckled against John's skin. “Maybe it doesn’t need something that drastic. But you really don’t have to mind it that much.”  
  
“And you don’t have to mind your padding that much,” John shot back, emphasising his point by running his hand over Mycroft’s waist. His fingers dug softly into the flesh, a guttural moan rumbling in his throat. He gripped a little harder and Mycroft couldn’t help but moan as well, John’s lust igniting him.

 

* * *

  
  
It was probably against every sexual etiquette but for a moment Mycroft couldn’t help but be reminded of how his few nights with Giselle had been. When proposing their arrangement he had communicated his nervousness about sexual contact but had said that he would try to do everything to make it as pleasurable for her as he (in his disinterest) could. Now it seemed almost cruel to him to hide his shame behind detachment and force someone else into the charade. And the more time he spent with John the less he understood how his marriage had seemed like a good idea to him.

 

* * *

  
  
With John everything was different. Every touch held meaning, his hands almost as if glued to John's body, attracted by his skin. A faint brush of fingers could bring a moan to his lips, make his breath hitch with anticipation and every kiss sent a warm, humming feeling down to his crotch. Maybe John was right, maybe Mycroft simply was gay – a nice, simple, almost vulgar explanation and excuse for his life and marriage.  
  
But bygones were bygones and Mycroft let the thoughts go, sighing silently. There was a time and place for memories and that time and place was not in bed with the first person he sexually desired.  
  
“What are you thinking about?“ grinned John, on his stomach between Mycroft’s legs, leaning on his elbows on each side of Mycroft’s hips, having stopped kissing his way down from Mycroft’s neck. John still enjoyed the exploring, the new sensations that came with the new territory, with making love to a man rather than just the drunk fumbling and handjobs in the seedy clubs that he had experienced back in uni.  
  
“I’m thinking about how this never made me feel so good before,” Mycroft answered truthfully. John’s grin widened to something almost suggestive and now Mycroft felt compelled to say, “I was married after all.”  
  
“If marriage was reason for a good love-life, divorces wouldn’t be so popular.”  
  
“Then let me rephrase: being married is the only point of my reference list, but it is there.”  
  
John was still wearing a wide grin and Mycroft slowly sat up, pulling John with him. John gave in, feeling vaguely excited as Mycroft’s body pressed against his, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand gently forcing his chin up.  
  
“I mean it,” muttered Mycroft between two kisses. “With you I feel...”  
  
“Attractive? Beautiful? Gorgeous? Graceful? Handsome? Lovely? Stunning?” asked John, his eyes closed and he licked his slightly tingling lips. Mycroft took the chance and kissed John again, deep and lingering, his palms hot and possessive on John’s skin.  
  
“You’re a natural talent,” muttered John, shivering slightly and feeling a little weak. “I don’t know about you, but I feel amazing.”  
  
Nevertheless he found some strength after a moment and then pushed Mycroft back into the cushions, licking and nibbling at Mycroft’s ear, one of his very sensitive spots. It took less than a minute before Mycroft was incoherent, writhing mess underneath him, his once firm grip on John’s waist slack. Mycroft wasn’t used to giving up his control, to let anyone lead him. But there was a first time for anything, he thought as he wrapped his arms around John and held him close.

 

* * *

  
  
They stayed in bed, making out and exploring each other’s body, until some time around noon when got up John to slip downstairs into the kitchen – raiding fridge and freezer for the promised chicken roast – and Mycroft decided to go to the study to get a little work done. It did take some time for Mycroft to be able to concentrate on his work, though, or even focused enough to get out of bed. The picture of John, in his underwear and shirt and nothing else, padding out of the room and down the stairs on bare feet was just so very present in his mind. A day ago he might not have thought much of it, but now the bare, muscular legs brought back a thousand pleasurable memories. The brush of fingers against his skin, skin under his own fingers, the smooth hardness of John’s erection against his palm, his hip, his thigh or backside.   
  
With a sigh Mycroft wrapped himself in his dressing gown, made the bed, picked up the evidence of their coupling and cleaning afterwards and strode over to the study when the bedroom seemed somewhat presentable. He flopped down (uncharacteristically) in his office chair and tried to concentrate on his work, but found his gaze drifting off into the distance more than once – and each time he pulled himself together again and began processing the information on the screen before him anew.  
  
After about an hour John came upstairs to the study and placed himself behind Mycroft, hands on his shoulders and lips on his neck.  
  
“This could be a matter of national security,” muttered Mycroft, but his attention had drifted from the document on his screen from the moment when John had entered the room. It wasn’t all that important anyway, Mycroft thought.  
  
“The chicken’s in the oven, the timer’s set. Let’s get back to bed,” whispered John, pulling Mycroft up and back to the bedroom. They quickly shed their clothes and slipped under the covers and into a curious, exploring and erotic embrace.  
  
“I feel like a horny teenager,” muttered John. “But with a bit more self-restraint.” He was still surprised how much just touching Mycroft could turn him on, how good that heavy, hard and hot cock in his hand felt, how right instead of just convenient.  
  
“I never was a horny teenager,” replied Mycroft, shivering when John applied a little pressure. Their fooling around had left him hard quite a few times that day but they had silently agreed on enjoying the process, not the results. Despite his little experience Mycroft knew the mechanics and that an orgasm would dull the sensation of John’s touch. They weren’t teenagers anymore, they would need some rest, so for the first time in his life getting worked up was better than just getting off – and letting the tension go and drain from him was better than riding those few, short waves of climax before when the shame had used to settled in. The shame of his body’s demands, his needs, that treacherous contentment afterwards.

 

* * *

  
  
With John Mycroft felt almost transformed. He was getting bolder, exploring John’s body more consciously, more aware. He could just deduce things about John, but deducing isn’t ‘having seen’, deducing isn't ‘having touched’ and deducing doesn’t give the pleasure seeing and touching does. So Mycroft was on his knees and heels, legs slightly spread and John’s draped over his thighs and each leg on each side of Mycroft’s waist. Mycroft’s hands were slowly coursing over John’s bare skin, his eyes quickly flickering over every inch of exposed skin, taking note of every mole and tiny scar marring the smoothness of John’s skin.  
  
John lay on his back, a warm, buzzing feeling in his stomach and lower even and his heart was beating strong in his chest. There was an excitement in being so open and vulnerable to his lover, Mycroft’s hands on his hips, his belly, his thighs and his chest. John’s breath hitched when Mycroft’s thumb brushed up his inner thigh and traced the long taunt sting of his adductor muscle up to John’s groin. Despite his own words about shame and desires, John felt a little ashamed, a little guilty. He didn’t quite feel ready to admit to anyone how much he enjoyed this. Especially this, the imposing figure of Mycroft over him, being on his back himself and all but writhing, needy and lusty, under his lover. He didn’t think anyone would understand – he didn’t quite understand himself. How he could want Mycroft to pin him down, probe him with his long, graceful fingers and fuck him? He had never tried it, how could he want this so much?  
  
He let his head fall back and moaned as Mycroft’s hands ran up and down his thighs in symmetric patterns, charting the muscles tensing under skin, pushing and fingers digging in softly.  
  
“You’re very handsome,” declared Mycroft, his need a nice, low hum in his abdomen. He let his hands glide up further to John’s smooth, hairless skin. His hands splayed out over John’s hips, the pads of his thumbs pressing softly down on the protruding bones. There was a warm smile on his lips and he let his right hand trail from the hips and along the sensitive juncture of thigh and torso. John giggled and instinctively pulled his leg a bit up. “Don’t! I'm ticklish.”  
  
“You must know the appeal of a ban,” smiled Mycroft, repeating the movement instantly.  
  
This time John was warned, however, and forced himself to relax and endure the contact, the sweet torment of Mycroft’s large but delicate hand. The feathery touches abated and his long fingers tangled in the dirty blond curls between John’s legs. He idly wrapped the hairs around his fingers with a languid, circling movement and John’s breath hitched at the gentle pull, closing his eyes and stretching lazily, letting the arousal flow over him in waves. Mycroft’s thumb strayed up, brushing against the velvety skin of John’s cock, tracing the protruding veins and the outlines of the anatomy underneath, something John ought to know better than him.

John moaned, lifted his arms up over his head and arched up. His eyes were closed, his head had rolled to the side and his lips were ajar, only closing ever so often to allow him to swallow. While Mycroft watched, John’s tongue darted to wet his lips, then sucking in his lower lip to chew softly on it. Mycroft wanted to replace John’s teeth with his own, mangling the soft flesh, sucking on it until John would moan into their kiss, gasp and sigh, but Mycroft held himself back. He had a better idea, capturing the coarse curls firmly between his fingers and gave a short, sharp tug. John gasped and moaned deeply, arching up and one leg wrapping around Mycroft’s waist. The older man let go of the hair and wrapped his hand around John’s erection, brushing his thumb over the sensitive, smooth surface, pulled back the foreskin and felt the difference between the textures – the velvety, veined skin on the shaft, the equally smooth, raw looking redness of the tip. Mycroft found it difficult to describe, although he knew the difference from his own body. He had never paid it much heed, he still didn’t find himself very interesting. But on John this was fascinating, enticing.  
  
John sucked in a sharp breath. “Careful,” he whispered. “It’s sensitive.” There was no accusation in his voice although some displeasure. He writhed a little and Mycroft withdrew his thumb from the tender flesh.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said.  
  
“No, it’s okay,” mumbled John. “It’s fine, just be a little more... soft there, ‘kay?”  
  
“Yes, of course,” smiled Mycroft, bringing his left hand in, letting it replace his right when it trailed down further, tracing the outline of John’s balls. It drew another moan from John and he had become fully hard in Mycroft’s hand. He felt not exposed at all as Mycroft’s fingers kept working, clearly inspecting him, exploring him. John’s only regret was that the fingertips currently trailing over the slightly ribbed skin along the vertical seam was that there was no way he felt able to tell Mycroft to go on, go deeper. His face flushed and his hips jerked upwards.  
  
“Shhh,” cooed Mycroft, running his left hand up along the faint outline of John’s abs, his sides, splaying out over his ribs.  
  
“Serratus anterior,” gasped John.  
  
Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, “Hm?”  
  
“There’s... a muscle, from the back, to the ribs at the side. It's the serratus anterior. From the other side from where your hand is.” John chuckled and Mycroft kept his hand still. “On a very fit person it can almost look like fingers splayed out under skin. Right now you could... interlock your fingers with them.”  
  
Mycroft smiled, his hand brushing up against the outline of John’s pectoral muscle, applying some pressure to the soft bud of John's nipple, rolling it softly under his fingertip, delightedly noting the moan it drew from John. “You’re thinking too much.”  
  
“Once a doctor always a doctor,” muttered John. “It changes the way you look at people. I look at people’s bodies like you might look at their shoes, instantly deducing where they have been by the mud stains. There were times when all I saw were symptoms and illnesses.”  
  
Mycroft nodded, he knew this all too well, a blessing and a curse in its own way. He grinned, paying further attention to John’s nipple. “What symptoms do I have?”  
  
John lifted his head with some difficulty and eyed Mycroft all over. “I would say you suffer from a parasympathetic reaction, manifesting in your lower abdomen, quite possibly brought on by sensory stimulation.”  
  
“Hm, yes,” muttered Mycroft. “Isn’t the parasympathetic system supposed to relax?”  
  
“Aren’t you feeling relaxed?” John asked and withdrew himself from Mycroft’s grasp, sitting up and moved over to Mycroft’s side, pressing himself against Mycroft’s body. His hand trailed up along the inside of Mycroft’s thigh and then ghosted over his crotch, feathery touches on his balls and erection. Mycroft shivered involuntarily. “See? A very relaxed shiver.”  
  
“Are you sure?” muttered Mycroft, panting softly.  
  
But in answer John simply brushed his lips over Mycroft’s ear, tongue tracing the hard ridges of cartilage under soft skin.  Mycroft moaned and running his tongue over his front teeth, hard and trapping the tip between them, then biting his lip. He let out a shuddery breath, fingers digging into his own thighs, desperate to hold on to something.  
  
John noticed and gently brushed his fingers over Mycroft’s. “Breathe,” he whispered. “Breathe and relax.”  
  
Mycroft did as he was told, leaning back into John’s body, warm and inviting, firm and soft at the same time. John had moved in behind Mycroft, arms around the taller man’s waist and rubbing gentle patterns into the skin of his hips and belly.  
  
“Let go,” muttered John and Mycroft let his head roll back onto John’s supporting shoulder. “You’re beautiful. You’re so very, very beautiful right now,” purred John, pressing kissed to Mycroft’s shoulder and neck. His fingers wandered back to Mycroft’s groin, teasing, brushing and caressing.  
  
“Oh God,” Mycroft moaned, his control having slipped, his hands limp by his side, only occasionally brushing against John’s thigh in a uncontrolled twitch.  
  
John let one hand run up Mycroft’s front, over his soft belly, the smooth planes of his ribcage, to his softly defined pectorals, hidden under the thicket that was Mycroft’s chest hair. He found the hard buds of Mycroft’s nipples and rolled them between his fingers, savouring the ragged moans and violent shivers, the movement of the muscles tensing in Mycroft’s back. They were like snakes coiling languidly under his skin and John could feel every twist against his chest. He finally lifted his hand and brought it to his mouth, spitting in his palm.  
  
Mycroft groaned when John’s warm, wet palm wrapped around his erection, gently jerking him off.  
  
“Stop. Oh, stop, please,” he mumbled. “I don’t want to... come alone.”  
  
John chuckled. “Oh, I’m very, very ready to come myself,” he moaned into Mycroft’s ear, tipping his hips forward so his hardness was pressing into the small of Mycroft’s back. An unintelligible curse dropped from Mycroft’s lips, soft and breathless.

“I still want to look at you,” came the equally soft words and for the first time Mycroft moved in John’s embrace, twisting against him and then turning around. His eyes were wide, pupils as small as pinheads and leaving a large plane of stormy grey. John swallowed hard as he stared into Mycroft’s eyes, feeling like he was staring out on the sea on a windy day, before or after a tempest.  
  
Before, John decided as he felt the storm hit him, Mycroft kissing him deeply, eagerly, using his body weight to topple them over.  
  
John felt like waves were washing over him, pulling him down into the deep, largely uncharted sea of the passion. Laughter bubbled from his lips, a strange mixture of desire and relief flooding him.  
  
“You’re so gorgeous,” laughed John, part of him afraid that Mycroft would be confused by his behaviour. But he seemed to understand, kept kissing John, his hips grinding against John’s urgently and eventually a short burst of laughter left his lips as well.  
  
“I want you,” he said, earnest again, his hand grabbing John’s cock firmly but carefully. “I never wanted anyone before you. It’s so hard... to want someone, desire someone. It feels so good, so exhilarating, but it’s also so frightening. God, I wish I...” he broke off with a strangled sound, pressing his forehead against John’s neck.  
  
John quickly grasped Mycroft’s hardness pressed against his hip, stroking him once, twice, ever so gently. “It’s okay,” moaned John and his other hand darting up to Mycroft’s head, gently cupping the back. John was so close himself and, if the broken sounds from the direction of his neck were any indication, Mycroft was just moments from finding his relief. “It’s okay, I’m here. I want you, Mycroft. I want you so much.”  
  
A distant part of John’s brain knew he was rambling, but he was beyond caring. His world had reduced to the fingers curling clumsily around his hard flesh, to where his own fingers were curling around Mycroft’s, the only very jerky motions he was capable of. There was a grunt from Mycroft and he jerked against John’s body, his cum spluttering against John’s belly. John gasped, his head falling back and he arched up against Mycroft, eyes pressed shut so firmly stars were exploding before them. He gasped at his own release, holding on to Mycroft and biting his lip. He was barely aware of the weight of the body on him, only feeling warmth and bliss surrounding him. His arm sneaked around Mycroft’s waist and he sighed contentedly.  
  
Mycroft seemed to take that as a comment on their current situation. “I apologise, I must be crushing you,” he mumbled, rather eloquently, considering their current situation.  
  
John didn’t respond, only whimpering a little when Mycroft rolled off of him and sighing softly as Mycroft wrapped himself around John and pulled the duvet carefully over their interwoven bodies. John muttered a few barely intelligible words.  
  
“Hm? What did you say?” Mycroft asked, holding John close.  
  
John sighed. “I feel sticky. And tired. Don’t go.”  
  
“We can shower later,” muttered Mycroft and nuzzled John’s neck. “But for now I’m tired, too.”  
  
They dozed off together, happy and satisfied.

 

  
  
When John woke a few hours later he carefully unwrapped himself from Mycroft’s embrace, the man out cold, and slipped into the guest room’s bathroom for a shower. Instead of just his briefs and shirt like earlier he put on proper clothes and went back to Mycroft’s bedside.   
  
He began planting soft kisses on the man and chuckled at the instant metaphor of sleeping beauty.   
  
“Hm?” came the surprised, sleepy sound from Mycroft. “Yes?”  
  
“Wake up, love,” he murmured, his fingers brushing through Mycroft’s hair, “I think you should get up, have a shower, get dressed and we’ll have something to eat.”  
  
Mycroft glanced up at John, in a light blue and grey plaid shirt. The two top buttons were undone and Mycroft wanted to read up and brush his thumb over the soft curve of the collarbones.  
  
“Do I have to get out of bed for that?” Mycroft asked, stretching lazily, wincing when the cover slipped away a little and the cool air hit his bare skin.  
  
“You do,” laughed John. “Come on! While you’re getting cleaned up I’ll change the sheets. We made a right mess there.”  
  
With a groan Mycroft rolled out of bed, taking the bathrobe John had picked up for him and padded over to the bathroom. “Sheets are in the cupboard behind the door in the dressing room. The right door.” He made a last gesture towards the door next to the bathroom door and John felt a little adventure coming on. When the bathroom door had closed behind Mycroft John all but lurched towards the other door. Mycroft’s dressing room sounded very interesting.  
  
John found a light switch on the right side of the wall and found himself in a small, windowless room. Immediately to his right was a laundry basked, an enormous wardrobe lining the wall. It was very tempting to look around the wardrobes and cupboards but John had a mission and turned towards the cupboard behind the door, picking out the sheets and bedcovers he would need.  
  
John had just wrestled the sheet onto the mattress when Mycroft emerged from the bathroom and slipped into the dressing room. He took considerably longer to dress than he had to shower so John had already finished the pillows by the time Mycroft appeared again, fully and immaculately dressed. John took a second to regret the presence of clothes before he admired them. Mycroft wore a dark grey suit with a champagne waistcoat over a white shirt, a dark grey tie with light blue and silver diagonal stripes. Mycroft looked incredibly sexy to John, but then he still wanted to get rid of that suit and run his hands over Mycroft’s bare skin.  
  
“Let’s finish this,” Mycroft smiled and John hoped his thoughts hadn't been obvious to the man. Together they changed the bedcover on the duvet and then left the room. Mycroft’s hand brushed against John’s back in a feathery touch, a question ghosting over his features. John smiled up at him and the wispy touch solidified into a warm hand pressing slightly against the curve of John’s lower back. The contact was most welcome to John and his smile widened.

 

* * *

  
  
They had spent so much time in bed that instead of lunch they had tea, but neither complained. In fact John had never felt happier, Mycroft had never seemed more relaxed. They sat together in the kitchen, chuckling over jokes and tucking into the simply delicious chicken.  
  
“Or maybe we’re just that starved,” John laughed. “No breakfast, no lunch...”  
  
“I’m really bad at taking care of you, it seems,” observed Mycroft, his eyes twinkling mischievously.  
  
John grinned and took a large gulp of his water. “Well, we had other priorities.”

Mycroft smiled – and John even thought he’d detected a faint blush – and got up to get two glasses of wine and the rest of last night’s bottle.  
  
“How long did you want to stay?” Mycroft asked, pouring them both a generous amount of the wine. His eyebrows had risen in anticipation of John’s answer.  
  
“Depends. How long you’ll have me, I guess.”  
  
“I didn’t think you’d want to move in straight away,” Mycroft answered flatly and John laughed.  
  
John shook his head, “Well, neither did I. But I don’t think I could just leave Sherlock. He would drive Mrs Hudson out of her mind within a fortnight.”  
  
Mycroft smiled, even at the mentioning of his brother and his living arrangements with John. John was unsure how Mycroft was supposed to feel about this, but John reckoned he'd not be too happy if it was his lover living with his brother. He had once dated one of Harry's flatmates and that had been awkward enough.  
  
Mycroft averted his eyes and John knew he had probably read every thought that had crossed John's mind. He still had the courtesy to ask, “What is on your mind?”  
  
“Baker Street. Sherlock. You. Would you... would you prefer me to not live with your brother?”  
  
Would Mycroft see his own brother as a threat? Would Mycroft think John was only with him because Sherlock was taken or to make him jealous? Would Sherlock do something stupid that could convince Mycroft of such a thing?  
  
“No,” Mycroft simply said and John wasn’t sure if that was only an answer to the question he had asked aloud. “I cannot say I am entirely certain of my judgement, but I’m certain that doubting you, doubting the status quo, would not lead to happiness.”  
  
John emptied his wine glass, feeling a little light headed. “Mycroft, I’m here because I want to be here with you, rather than anywhere else. In this... way we are together, at least. My life is in Baker Street and my mind is on the chase with Sherlock, but... my heart is with you. Belongs to you.”  
  
Mycroft smiled softly, his eyes fixed on the remains on his plate, his hands steepled in front of him, his index fingers pressing against his lower lip.  
  
John wondered if he should amend his statement with something “ _And my body as well_ ” but decided he had been sappy enough already.  
  
They finished their meal in silence, cleaned up in silence and exited the kitchen to the living room.  
  
“Will you join me on the sofa?" Mycroft asked. “For some platonic, physical closeness.”  
  
“Cuddling, you mean?"”  
  
Mycroft’s answer was a simple, sheepish smile and a nod and John shook his head in a loving way but in no way to deny Mycroft his wish. “Of course, I would.”  
  
John made Mycroft lose his jacket and they settled down on the couch. Mycroft’s arm was around John’s shoulder and slowly, surely, the twisted into another position. Mycroft was propped against one armrest, John sitting between his legs, resting his back against Mycroft’s chest, head against his shoulder. They were both utterly comfortable and John felt confident enough to ask a question.   
  
“What about your marriage?”  
  
Mycroft sighed, “My marriage?”  
  
“Tell me about your wife. I want to know how one has to be to endure living with you for a long time. Maybe there’s a trick I can learn...” teased John all in good nature.  
  
There was a chuckle and Mycroft’s fingers combed through John’s hair. “Well, Giselle... she was the daughter of a French diplomat and an English secretary. They met in London in the early seventies, married and Giselle was born back in Paris, in ‘75. She stayed there until her parents could bear to let her attend a British public school. All girls, of course. She finished a year early and started attending university. We met there through some mutual friends of ours and I took a liking to her. She was a nice girl – coquettish in her own way, but growing shyer the closer one got to her, especially with the opposite sex.”  
  
There was a moment of silence and John tried to wrap his mind around the condensed information, “That sounds very confusing. Her behaviour.”  
  
“I felt somewhat lucky even. Although all the boys were ‘over her’ like a bees swarming around a fragrant flower she never let anybody get really close. I gathered that they gradually lost interest in her the closer they got. So I tried my luck.”  
  
“You dated her?” John asked, the whole thing seeming probable, considering Mycroft’s character, though not making any more sense than a minute ago.  
  
“Not in a traditional... well, modern way. I courted her, of course, but I was rather open about my intentions. Now I would say she was just as much of an outcast as I was, brought up to be a respectable girl and afraid to step out of line. In a way we were both hoping the other would take us somewhere we were unsure of getting to, in this relationship. We both sought experience the other didn’t have after all. And in my case I lost the willingness to try to find a way and to learn together very quickly when I... found out we were both inexperienced.”  
  
“I thought you simply wanted children?” John inquired, his heart softening at Mycroft's matter-of-fact but nonetheless intimate report.  
  
Mycroft nodded, unseen by John, “Yes, of course. But there is more to an respectable life than just children. I thought... I thought I would find happiness in this role I had chosen for myself, in this life I thought was worth living. I thought I would be happy once was settled down with my pretty wife, my adorable children, my nice house and respectable work as a civil servant.”  
  
The next question was very much rhetorical, “You weren’t happy, were you?”  
  
“I was content, I was happy with my children. But... Giselle and I were more friends than anything else. I was almost thrilled when she told me she would resume her education. And it was a relief when we decided we were going to get a divorce.”  
  
“And your children?” John eventually asked.  
  
Mycroft’s voice was unusually heavy and soft with emotion as he spoke, “Three. Two girls and a boy, the two younger are twins. Cassiopeia is the eldest and sixteen.”  
  
“Cassiopeia?” John asked, tilting his head upwards to smile at Mycroft.  
  
“You’re speaking to the man called ‘Mycroft’, my dear,” smiled Mycroft and continued, “Minerva and Sherlock are twelve.”  
  
“Sherlock?” laughed John now. “Why ‘Sherlock’?”  
  
“Because I knew it would spite and intrigue my brother. He was eighteen when the twins were on their way, he was wilful and rebellious and the only thing that seemed to calm him was little Cassiopeia. He adored her then and he still loves them now. I hoped that his nephew would remind him of his family ties and maybe, one day, he will grow up enough to appreciate it.”  
  
“You’re hopelessly romantic,” laughed John, tender and soft. Mycroft ran his fingers through John’s hair once more and his hand came to rest on John’s forehead. He tilted John’s head back and turned it until he was able to claim his mouth in a possessive kiss. John moaned happily and arched into the kiss.  
  
Mycroft’s left hand was covering John’s left resting on his stomach, John’s right came up high above his head, tangling in Mycroft’s hair. The kiss deepened slowly and Mycroft’s left began unbuttoning John’s shirt, running his fingertips over the smooth skin.  
  
“How come your chest is so hairless?”  
  
John purred at the fingertips trailing up and down his sternum. “I had a girlfriend once who told me my sparse, blond growth looked pathetic, so I’d better get rid of it all together. It looked rather good when I was still toned and it's become a bit of a habit since then. You like it?”  
  
“I don’t know you any other way, but yes. It’s an interesting texture,” smiled Mycroft, his fingertips now drawing circles. If he wasn’t entirely mistaken the skin felt even smoother than this afternoon, before he had showered.  
  
“Oh god, this is unbelievable,” chuckled John. “Do you know how long we’ve been in bed today?”  
  
“Several hours,” Mycroft answered, “apart from sleeping.”  
  
John grinned into the soft kiss, “It’s been a long, long time since I could do it twice a day.”  
  
Mycroft chuckled softly, his fingers still brushing softly over John’s chest. “I will take that as a compliment and not just evidence of your lacking love life.”  
  
“You can very much take it as a compliment,” muttered John, turning around in Mycroft’s embrace. “My love life only has been lacking since I was wounded, really.”  
  
Mycroft’s hands came to rest on John’s waist and one eyebrow wandered up. “Has it?”  
  
“Has been lacking until last evening,” grinned John.  
  
Mycroft held John close, letting his lover chose the pace of their kiss. John took full advantage of the privilege, alternating between brushing his lips softly against Mycroft’s and deep kisses, quick pecks and drawn-out sensual touches, drawing the tip of his tongue over Mycroft’s lips, nibbling and sucking at them until Mycroft gasped. John continued with this sloppy kisses until they were breathless and content. John pushed himself up a bit and smiled down at Mycroft, running a finger down the side of Mycroft’s face. He loosened Mycroft’s tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.  
  
Mycroft quickly brought up his hand, wiping over his mouth in almost a petulant manner. John grinned and brushed his thumb over Mycroft’s lips before kissing him a little less messy than before, slow and calm.  
  
“Hm,” purred Mycroft. “Tell me what you want to do now?”  
  
The question had a rather adverse effect on John who tensed in Mycroft’s arms and broke their kiss. He sat up and laughed nervously, Mycroft following his movement and sitting up as well, as if he was tied to John by an invisible elastic band.

“What I want to do...” John ran a hand nervously through his hair, laughing again, “I want to give you a blow job.”  
  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and there was a long pause while the thought about his answer. “I don't know what you want me to say. Are you asking for my consent?”  
  
“I don’t know,” mumbled John, his head lowered and rubbing his eyes. He was wondering how the words had even left his lips, where this sudden boldness had come from.  
  
In an unusual display of emotion Mycroft bit his lip nervously for a second before he put a hand on John’s shoulder. “John, I’m happy. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”  
  
“But I want to give it a try. I’m just afraid...” John trailed of, giving Mycroft a shy smile.  
  
“You don’t have to be afraid,” replied Mycroft. “If you don’t like it you can simply stop. Besides, it’s only a cock. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before and it doesn’t bite.”  
  
John laughed, relieved now, and Mycroft gave him a brilliant smile. “I still feel stupid.”  
  
“You told me,” said Mycroft and kissed John quickly, “that there is nothing wrong with what I want, that I should give in to my desires. Does that not apply to you as well? There is nothing wrong and nothing stupid about what you want.”  
  
“But,” John continued, “I’ve never wanted this before! I've never considered it!”  
  
“I am sure there is a lot of things you have never considered or wanted and that doesn’t mean that you would not enjoy it if you tried. Just because you want to do something you didn’t want to do before that doesn’t mean it’s stupid to want it.” John felt reminded of last night, of the moment when he’d been entirely sure that he wanted Mycroft to fuck him. “I want you, for example. I’ve known you for some time before I began to want you. Does that sound stupid to you?”  
  
“No,” said John and glanced up at Mycroft who had blushed slightly. It seemed so unreal that John couldn’t quite figure it out for a moment. But then... “You like the idea, don’t you?”  
  
Mycroft swallowed hard, "Would that change how you feel about what I said?"  
  
“No,” John said. “No, really. It wouldn’t. But maybe I wouldn’t feel so stupid if... you told me that you wanted it, too.” He blushed at the statement.  
  
“Technically I don’t. Technically I merely want you to try,” explained Mycroft, the faint blush spreading further over his cheeks. A peculiar mix of shame and arousal – more of the latter than the former, but still a bit of both. “But I don’t want to want anything that you don’t.”  
  
“We seem to have come to a... difficult point here. What are we arguing for here?”  
  
“Yes, logic seems to be overrun by emotion,” nodded Mycroft and brushed his fingers over John’s, over his thigh. “John, I don’t want to like anything that you don’t. I’m mortally terrified of wanting something that you find repulsive.”  
  
“We won’t know before I haven’t tried,” John whispered, his gaze averted. It took a moment before he felt able to look up and when he did he simply stared at Mycroft. “Let me try.”  
  
And Mycroft let him. Let John push him back against the couch, let him fumble with his fly and underwear, let him pull Mycroft's half-hard cock from its textile confinement. If the moment had drawn out any longer Mycroft was sure he would have lost every interest in proceeding with the embarrassment looming overhead.  
  
But John’s lips around the head of his cock, his tongue pressing softly against the underside, let his doubts vanish instantly. Sweet, warm wetness engulfed him and Mycroft was sure he would enjoy this. Some part of him hoped John would share the sentiment.  
  
John on the other hand was focused on the technicalities. Mycroft was of average length and girth, but that didn’t make the task easy per se. Carefully John pulled back and slid back down again, inching a little further every time. There was a limit how far he could go without gagging and an angle, too. His knowledge of anatomy came in handy, he tried to align his mouth with his throat as far as possible to avoid any touch to the sensitive back of his throat. He still couldn’t take Mycroft in all the way, but John was content for the moment, setting a languid pace, savouring the familiar taste, the feeling. It was rather arousing for him, despite the cramp that was slowly forming in his jaw.   
  
His attention was slipping a little and suddenly he found himself half-grunting, half-gagging and losing the suction he had built up as he was gasping for air around Mycroft’s hardness that had mostly slipped from his mouth.  
  
“Are you okay?” Mycroft inquired instantly, his cheeks flushed pink, the same flush that was rising from beneath his collar. “You don’t...”  
  
“It’s okay,” muttered John, wanting to press a kiss against the pale skin stretched over Mycroft’s hipbones and finding himself denied this by clothing. “I misjudged a little.”  
  
John quickly slid a hand down to adjust himself and then leaned back down to Mycroft’s crotch. Mycroft’s head rolled back and he closed his eyes, muttering and whimpering under his breath. His hand found its way into John's hair and that made John moan around Mycroft’s length, the sound translating directly into vibration. John let his hand sneak into Mycroft’s pants, gently fondling his balls. That brought more sounds to Mycroft’s lips, moans and broken words, “God, yes” and “Oh, John”.  
  
John was more than grateful for Mycroft’s lose-cut trousers which were granting him much freedom of movement. His hand was working softly on Mycroft's sensitive flesh wondering how Mycroft would react if he let his fingers dipping lower, towards the tight ring of muscles.  
  
Mycroft’s hips jerked slightly up and John pulled back, breathing soft kisses on Mycroft’s wet erection. John kept stroking Mycroft slowly as he hovered over him, looking up at Mycroft. After a moment in which his breathing evened out Mycroft bit his lip slightly and gave John a questioning gaze.  
  
“It’s not bad,” said John. “In fact, I really liked the sounds you made.”  
  
Mycroft blushed and John thought it was a rather adorable picture. So John moved closer, planting a possessive kiss on Mycroft’s lips, while his hand moved back into Mycroft’s trousers. With a guttural grunt Mycroft grabbed John’s wrist, his grip firm though his hand not entirely steady. There was an audible strain on his voice, the muscles in his neck tense and his breathing laboured. “Give me a moment, please. I’m too close right now.”

John very much wanted to see Mycroft unravelled right now, staining his expensive suit when he lost every control over his lust at John’s hand. But there was also the lovely buzzing under his skin, his own arousal growing more substantial and the first urging towards his own relief.  
  
“Let’s get upstairs?”  
  
“Why don’t you go up and get comfortable. I’ll be right behind. I just need a moment. And I’ll clean up a bit down here.”  
  
John smiled and got up. “Don’t be too long or might have to take matters into my own hands.” Mycroft blushed again, his control slowly slipping. Of course John noticed. He picked up his wine glass and the bottle and smiled at Mycroft, letting his gaze run over his lover’s form. “See you in a moment.”  
  
With that John left Mycroft on the couch and chuckled at his own words. Not only Mycroft was losing control here.  
  
Mycroft smiled at John’s retreating back, then went to the kitchen, to clean up. He put the leftovers in the fridge, dishes in the dishwasher and brought the trash out. His arousal was fading, just enough so he could think of John without moaning. There was quite some relief in that.  
  
Meanwhile John had made himself comfortable on the bed, propped up against the pillows, losing his socks and sipping at his wine. He leaned back and recalled the recent memories of the intimacy shared with Mycroft. The feeling of the coarse hair against the tip of his nose, the hard flesh in his mouth, the slightly bitter and salty taste of pre-cum. John’s hand wandered down to his crotch, adjusting himself at first but then rubbing himself a little through his clothes. His hips jerked up into his own hand and John bit his lip. It took most of his willpower to pull his hand away and to wait patiently for Mycroft.  
  
When Mycroft finally came up to the bedroom he was taking long, confident steps and John felt a twinge of arousal, more focused than the mere manual stimulation had brought on. Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed, taking the wineglass from John and emptying it in one, long draught. John swallowed hard as his eyes trailed down Mycroft’s incredibly long neck to his collar then back up to his jaw and over his slightly wet lips.  
  
John hardly realised how his hands had come up to Mycroft’s face, his shirt, his waistcoat and pulled him into a sluggish kiss. “You’re so hot,” muttered John, gasping into the kiss.

Mycroft’s finger made short work of the remaining buttons on John’s shirt and then ran over the skin underneath. John whimpered with urgent need, Mycroft’s kiss tasting faintly of wine and making him feel slightly feverish. Mycroft crawled over John and straddled his hips without breaking the kiss. John gasped and Mycroft took advantage, sliding his tongue deep into John’s mouth, against John’s tongue and teeth.

John was surprised by Mycroft’s boldness, but he rather liked this new side to his lover. He was quite happy for a while to just let Mycroft take charge, let him kiss him and run his hands down John’s side.  
  
But then John was getting a little impatient and he wanted more. He pulled on Mycroft’s tie until the knot came undone and got rid of it. Although his fingers were shaking a little and he wanted to just dig his fingers into Mycroft’s skin he managed to unbuttoned his waistcoat and pull his shirt from his waistband. Mycroft shuffled out of the waistcoat and the shirt, grinning against John’s lips.  
  
John moaned silently as his fingers finally met bare skin and dug into Mycroft’s soft flanks. Mycroft winced a little, but then John’s hands wandered a little lower, his fingers sneaking under his waistband, back up a bit and grabbed his buttocks through his trousers.  
  
“God,” panted John when their lips parted for a moment.  
  
“You can call me Mycroft,” mumbled Mycroft against John’s neck, kissing the soft skin there and up to John’s ear to nibble on the lobe.  
  
John was torn between laughing and whimpering. Stars were exploding in front of his eyes and all sense went out of the window as Mycroft’s tongue traced his ear, his lips engulfed the lobe and sucked gently on it. All he could hear was Mycroft’s breath and his own, ragged and irregular panting.  
  
It was almost getting too much and so John pushed Mycroft away a little, having a hard time to focus on his face.  
  
“Mycroft,” he whispered breathlessly, “give me a second.”  
  
Mycroft smiled and kissed his way down John’s neck and his chest, down his stomach to John’s waistband. John sucked in a breath as Mycroft undid the jeans’ button and kissed the skin underneath immediately. He pulled John’s erection free and for a breathless moment John wondered if Mycroft would dare to go down on him. He exhaled when Mycroft merely placed a kiss over John’s hipbone and pulled down his pants and trousers.  
  
John smiled to himself as he felt Mycroft move down his thigh, felt him press his lips to the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh. John’s hand wandered down to his cock and he gave himself a couple of languid strokes while Mycroft finished undressing him.  
  
Mycroft came back up and kissed John, gently prying John’s fingers away from his erection. “Hm, let me do that,” he whispered.  
  
John grinned, but shook his head. “I guess it’s my turn.”  
  
He undid Mycroft’s belt and his trousers’ button, then gently pulled the waistband of his pants over Mycroft’s hard cock, jerking him gently before shoving down Mycroft’s remaining clothes. John sat up and admired Mycroft’s long, lean legs, rubbing up and down the thigh closer to him.  
  
Mycroft worried his lower lip between his teeth as he watched John, trying hard not to look away in shame.  
  
“You’re beautiful,” John tried to reassure Mycroft. He pulled Mycroft's pants, trousers and socks of and then slid up along those incredibly long legs until he was hovering over Mycroft’s hips. “You are incredibly, incredibly hot!”  
  
Again John lowered his head to Mycroft’s crotch, nuzzling base of his erection, licking along the underside, letting his tongue run over the tip and finally letting Mycroft’s length sliding into his mouth. Mycroft bit back a moan, hips jerking slightly up.  
  
Their earlier endeavours had taken their toll on Mycroft’s endurance and quickly his breath came in short, forced puffs. John was rather proud of this achievement and thought he was possibly developing a taste for – at least Mycroft’s – cock. It sounded so ridiculous in his head, like a line from some old, bad, tiny, grainy porn. But right now he couldn’t have cared less.  
  
Mycroft bit his lip, trying to stifle the soft sounds threatening to escape his throat. But then one moan escaped and John felt encouraged, quickening his pace, never minding his aching jaw. It felt exhilarating to have such primal power of Mycroft’s body and his own arousal built up.  
  
“John!” cried Mycroft, sounding urgent and strangled. “So close!”  
  
John wasn’t feeling quite brave enough to keep going and quickly pulled back, sliding up along Mycroft’s body and kissing him, Mycroft claiming John’s lips in turn. John was on his side, propped up on one elbow, one hand jerking Mycroft’s erection until the kiss broke into silent curses, moans and grunts and John felt Mycroft’s hot cum on his fingers. After that John didn’t need much, his messy fingers grasping his own erection and the thought how Mycroft’s climax was lubricating his movement was almost enough to make John come. His climax was accompanied by a loud moan and he all but dropped against Mycroft, shivering and grinning goofily.  
  
“We’re sticky,” muttered Mycroft, his voice a sleepy drawl, and carefully stretched his limbs.  
  
This time John put a hand on Mycroft’s chest and thus kept him from getting up. “I think it’s my turn to get something to clean up.”  
  
Mycroft grinned stupidly and let his eyes fall close. “Towels are under the sink,” Mycroft muttered before he surrendered completely to the contentment. His limbs were growing heavier by the minute and only John’s return and the warm, wet towel on his belly could tear him for a moment from the sleepiness. He pried his eyes open and smiled fondly at John.  
  
“Come here, my dear,” he muttered and managed to stretch his arm out to the side as an offer for John to lie down by his side.  
  
The softly spoken pet name brought a wide smile to John's face. “Let’s get you under the covers first. You’re going to catch your death otherwise. It’d be a shame!”  
  
Mycroft grunted unhappily, but complied and let John help him under the duvet. John followed his lover and curled up against the long body, enjoying Mycroft’s almost clumsy attempts at wrapping John into a soft embrace.  
  
“Thank you,” he muttered. “Being with you... this is the best thing that ever happened to me.”  
  
John smiled, not quite believing Mycroft’s words.  
  
“Good night,” he whispered instead, listening to Mycroft’s heartbeat and letting his eyes slowly fall shut and the darkness pull him into sleep.  
  



	12. Light in the desert tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This might be the longest chapter and it's the first unpublished one.

Mycroft woke up on Sunday to find John propped up on his left elbow, smiling down at him from Mycroft’s left side. To his horror the sheets had been drawn back and he was exposed from his hips upwards. Not that the sheet covering his modesty mattered. He felt too exposed already.

“You look a little tense in your sleep, sometimes,” John stated, smiling fondly.

“I’m cold,” replied Mycroft, voice a bit too high, words a bit too forced. Both of them knew.

John lay down on his side and his right hand came to rest on Mycroft, softly rubbing his belly. “Sorry, I just really enjoy looking at you.”

“I'm cold!” replied Mycroft, his tone more that of a petulant child than that of a grown man. He grabbed the covers with one hand and turned away from John, not only seeking comfort in the warm fabric, but even more so in the visual barrier. At least he had stuck to his lie.

However John knew when to be persistent and slowly, carefully cuddled up to Mycroft’s back. He placed a hand on Mycroft’s waist and when there was no resistance, he let it slip forward.

“You are cold,” John stated, one hand combing through Mycroft’s chest-hair. “I’m sorry.” He pressed soft kisses to Mycroft’s shoulders and then pulled the duvet up some more.

Eventually Mycroft lifted a hand to cover John’s. “I’m just not comfortable...being stared at.”

“I don’t judge you,” replied John.

Mycroft huffed, quite uncharacteristically, “That’s not the point.”

“Okay. That’s fine,” John smiled, not believing a word. He didn’t take it personally, though. In fact he was almost happy to see that somehow Mycroft was just a little broken, too. It was something he could relate to and he didn’t feel quite as inadequate now - but he did feel guilty for those feelings.

John’s hand kept stroking, fingers trailing over chest and belly. Finally Mycroft gave in and turned towards John, coming to lie on his back. John smiled, sneaking his left arm under Mycroft’s head. Mycroft turned his head all the way over until he was facing John’s scar. It was too close to see, but Mycroft had memorised it and lifted his hand to the marred skin, fingertips brushing over hardened tissue.

“See?” teased John, his eyes shining with benevolent mirth, partly forcing himself to feel that way about himself. “I’m hardly centrefold material myself. You don’t have to be perfect for the world, not even for yourself, you just have to be perfect for me. And you are.”

Maybe it wasn’t just John’s words (alone or at all), but a deeper feeling surfaced in Mycroft. He cleared his throat and stared up into John’s eyes. “I’ve waited so long for you to be mine,” he muttered, the words barely audible over his heavy breathing. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” replied John just as quietly, giving Mycroft a pleading look. “Not because of your weight or your body. I’m here, with you, aren’t I? Do you think I would be here if I thought you’re repulsive? I enjoy being with you, I want to touch you. I like what I see when I look at you. Is that so hard to believe?” 

Mycroft didn’t feel able to respond to that and only blinked, mutely. John took Mycroft’s hand in his and raised it to his face, softly brushing his lips along Mycroft’s index finger until his lips were tingling softly with the touch. John hoped Mycroft eventually would begin to feel comfortable with himself, as comfortable as John felt with Mycroft by his side. John thought he might have a good idea how to get Mycroft to relax. “When did you last have a bath? I mean, just soak in warm water?”

Mycroft thought a moment about it, still pondering John’s loving confession in disbelief, and happy to change the subject, “A long time ago, I think.” 

“So, let’s do it,” suggested John with a grin, pressing soft kisses to Mycroft's fingertips and palm.

“Have a bath?” Mycroft ask, tilting his head a little. 

“Yes. The two of us, warm water, at least half an hour.”

Mycroft seemed genuinely confused when he asked, “Now?”

John let out a laugh. “No, not now. Tonight before we go to bed, maybe.”

“Hm, that seems acceptable,” he said slowly, a hint of dread at being so exposed around John without the dulling effect of arousal on his self-consciousness.

“So you’ll have a bath with me,” John smiled, a little giddy and pleased with himself.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Yes, I think I will.” He turned onto his back, his lips set in a gentle smile and his head still turned towards John.

John pressed another kiss against Mycroft’s knuckles and his smile turned into a grin, “Promise?”

Mycroft nodded softly and his face had turned quite earnest, “If it means this much to you, I do promise.”

John slid down, pulling the cover down with him and rested his head on Mycroft’s belly, his arm draped loosely over Mycroft and his fingers drawing patterns in the crook of Mycroft’s elbow. Mycroft brought his hand up to John’s head and brushed his fingers through John’s hair.

John buried his face against Mycroft’s skin, smiling to himself and inhaling the lingering, musky, salty scent of sweat and cum, the faint remains of what he hadn’t managed to clean off last night. It was becoming familiar; he was beginning to enjoy it immensely, the implication of commonplace and routine. Basically he was happy, filled with a simple, almost understated but wholesome contentment he hadn’t felt in years.

There were three words floating around in his head, becoming more solid with every passing breath. He wanted to kiss them into Mycroft’s skin, some part of him even wanting to say them, but it was too soon, he knew. Too intimate, maybe.

John kept smiling, though, drawing his hand down and rubbing Mycroft’s waist gently. Mycroft pressed his eyes shut and bit his lip, grabbing a fist full of John’s hair but loosening his grip immediately before he could hurt John.

“Thank you,” Mycroft mumbled. “Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome,” replied John, his breath hot against Mycroft’s skin. “For whatever you’re thanking me for.”

Mycroft laughed softly and began caressing the nape of John’s neck. That got him an appreciative purr from John and another soft rub of his waist.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

John pressed a kiss against Mycroft’s skin. “Being with you is... so easy. It’s not always that you can talk about the awkward stuff.”

“Awkward?”

John mumbled against Mycroft’s skin, a little embarrassed nonetheless, “Sex.”

“We're both adults. We should be able to discuss the physical aspects of our relationship. Albeit with some embarrassment.” He blushed slightly, despite his words.

John laughed. “Well, you would, of course. And I can. But it took me a while, even though I’m a doctor.”

“I’m flattered,” Mycroft smiled, brushing his fingers through John’s hair. Over the last few minutes he had relaxed and just enjoyed the feeling of John by his side. “John? Come up here.”

John complied and was surprised by the strength with which Mycroft hugged him. He returned the embrace just as fiercely, hiding his face against Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft loosened one arm around John and brought his hand up to John’s hair, running it gently through the soft strands.

They stayed like that for a long time, only breaking apart after some silent signal. John looked up into Mycroft’s eyes and brushed his fingers over Mycroft’s cheek, smiling involuntarily.

“Let’s get dressed and have breakfast,” said Mycroft and John nodded.

“Yeah, that’s a brilliant idea. I’m starving.”

They slipped out of bed and gathered their clothes. “I’ll be back in a minute,” John grinned, a little embarrassed, and hurried across the hall towards the guest room.  Mycroft strolled into the bathroom and gave himself a quick clean-up, then slipped back into his grey trousers, a new shirt and an anthracite waistcoat. His jacket was still downstairs and he told himself he would get it later.

Though then John came back, cleaned-up and dressed, and the way his eyes were wandering over Mycroft’s body with a very approving glance told Mycroft he should maybe be leaving his attire just a tad short of complete for today.

They walked down to the kitchen together, their hands sneaking into each other, and decided to have scrambled eggs.

“What is your plan for today?” Mycroft asked, whisking the eggs.

“I've got a few patient records I should work on. I have my notes here and they need to be typed.”

“All right,” nodded Mycroft, “there’s a few files I should take care of myself. If that wasn’t the case I would offer you my study, but... feel free to occupy any other space.”

“I’ll find a nice spot to work,” smiled John and made coffee, then turned towards the toast.

They came to sit facing each other over a plate of breakfast and a cup of coffee each.

For a moment Mycroft only sat there and smiled at John, watching him eat. Of course John noticed and glanced up at Mycroft, smiling a little self-consciously. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” smiled Mycroft and reached out to touch John’s hand. “I just like to watch you.”

“Okay.” John still felt self-conscious, but turned back to eating.

After a moment Mycroft ceased his observing and they finished their breakfast in silence.

 

* * *

  
John decided on settling down on the sofa and set to work.

He managed to work for a few hours and was almost completely done with the last few weeks’ notes he had been putting off when noon rolled around.

He was getting more bored by the minute and sighed, wondering whether he could justify a break.

 

* * *

 

  
Mycroft was so immersed in his work that he didn’t notice John appearing at the door. John watched him for a long while, taking in the curve of Mycroft’s neck as he tilted his head and rest it on his hand, reading a document. A pencil between his long, slender fingers was being twirled busily by the digits.

With a few long strides John was behind Mycroft, still unnoticed by the otherwise almost omniscient man. John grinned and turned Mycroft’s chair around so he could lean in for a long kiss. Mycroft was surprised at first, but then returned the kiss eagerly. John whispered huskily, “One day I’ll come into your office and give you a secret blow-job under your desk.”

“Is that a promise?” Mycroft asked, a jolt of arousal coursing through him as well amusement.

John chuckled. “Yes. But not for now... you promised me a bath.”

Mycroft nodded and his gaze dropped down to John’s lips. His words came a little less easy, the slight smile distracting him. “Before we go to bed, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes, right,” smirked John. His stomach growled and John looked a little sheepish.

“Lunch?” Mycroft asked, a little hopeful himself.

“We have leftover chicken. Sandwiches?”

“Hm, sounds delicious. I think dinner will be my turn then?”

John was a little surprised, though he didn’t quite know why. “You can cook?”

In hindsight that was only marginally better than “We are taking turns?”.

If Mycroft thought the comment amiss he didn’t let on. “Of course. One doesn’t get overfed on restaurant dinners and lunches in the office - not when they’re chosen by my assistant. It’s those tempting leftovers in the fridge.”

John laughed softly and kissed Mycroft gently. “Then I’ll make short work of the chicken leftovers and put them between sliced bread. With some lettuce and tomato, maybe.”

“I’ll leave it in your capable hands.” Mycroft’s fingers tangled in the collar of John’s shirt and he pulled him in for a long, sensual kiss. John was torn between giving in to the awkward position he was in or pulling back. Mycroft sensed his tension and pulled John even closer with a hand hooked in the waistband of his jeans. John didn’t have a choice, wedging his knee between Mycroft’s thighs in an attempt to support himself. Mycroft didn’t let go and slid down until his crotch brushed against John’s knee. John pulled away from Mycroft and gave him an almost serious look.

“If you want to do that we won’t have lunch.”

Mycroft just gave John a mischievous smile. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist.”

John’s eyes fell on a picture on the desk. It was one of those classical family shots.

Mycroft noticed John’s gaze and offered an explanation, “We still do them for our parents’ sake, for Christmas.”

“May I?” he asked and picked the frame up when Mycroft gave a curt nod.

The twins sat in the front, behind them their older sister, to her right Mycroft and to her left her mother. John’s fingers hovered over the glass for a moment.

“She is beautiful,” John said and for a moment wondered why he sounded so surprised.

John guessed she was about 5’7” or 5’8” tall (or just wore incredibly high heels), with long blonde hair, blue eyes and a slight smile.

She seemed elegant, sophisticated. A confident, attractive, intelligent woman.

She looked right, next to Mycroft.

Right in a way John probably would never look right next to Mycroft. He realized now why Harry had always been so sarcastic about bisexuals, almost understood her even. How could he compare to someone he just could not compare to?

He also felt guilty. Guilty because his gaze lingered on Giselle and he thought about how her legs were probably three feet long at least, smooth and lightly tanned and if things were different and he would have met her somewhere and she would have…

“I don’t want her,” Mycroft said softly. His expression was earnest and open, but John only cursed himself for his own despair showing so openly. “I wouldn’t have divorced her if I would have. I love her - how could I not love her? - but it’s not that kind of love.”

“She is quite a catch.”

“So are you,” Mycroft assured him and put a hand on John’s waist.

The next words had broken out of John before his brain had had the chance to veto. “I can’t quite compare to her.”

Mycroft took John’s hand and stroked it gently. “Don’t be silly, you’ve got plenty achievements of your own. Doctor Watson.”

“I’ll be downstairs then,” mumbled John and parted with a last, quick kiss from Mycroft.

 

* * *

  
Downstairs John set to work in the kitchen, attempting to be cheerful, but slowly his mood darkened. He couldn’t forget the photograph on Mycroft’s desk and as he stood in the immaculate kitchen and looked out to the expansive living room, the small but luxurious garden visible through the French windows, he felt rather insignificant and small. He was standing down here, making sandwiches with cold chicken and tomatoes and lettuce, while upstairs Mycroft was probably altering the course of the Nation.

For a strange moment John even wondered what would happen if, at some point in the future, they would break up. Maybe after he had become privy to certain things? Maybe having slept with Mycroft was enough for his body to never be found.

John chased these ridiculous thoughts away, but still some doubt remained.

Doubt as to his worth and his value to Mycroft. Some part of him feared that Mycroft’s moods and interests could be as fickle as Sherlock’s and that, at some point, Mycroft would simply be bored of John.

Some illogical part of his mind kept wandering back to Mycroft’s family history. He could not compare to Giselle. How could he hope to hold Mycroft’s interest?

John stared down at the kitchen table, with a mountain of sandwiches on a plate between the two place sets. He was scared of this domesticity, the implications and how vulnerable it made him feel. He was scared of what it would mean if he was to go up or even just call up the stairs for Mycroft to have lunch with him.

John just dropped into a chair and pulled out his mobile. 

Mycroft came down the stairs two minutes later, giving John a puzzled look. “You could have just come up or called for me.”

John shrugged a little, “It felt wrong... stupid.” His thoughts had by no means cleared up and he was still afraid of the implications.

“So you texted me, really?” Mycroft asked, oblivious to John’s unease, and came closer. He studied John’s face for a moment, then placed his hands on John’s arms. He pressed a kiss to John's forehead and asked ever so softly, “Don’t you remember what I told you about being stupid?”

“It’s hard not to feel stupid in your presence,” replied John, his lips curling into a small smile. At least Mycroft’s presence had a soothing effect on him as well.

“You shouldn’t measure your intelligence against mine or Sherlock’s, you’re bound to draw the short straw. That’s not good for your self-confidence, my dear.”

Now John almost laughed. Mycroft sensed something wasn’t quite right and pulled the chair next to John up and sat down. “John, is that everything that’s worrying you?”

John gave a lopsided grin. “It’s fine. I’m just a little overwhelmed. This… I was so eager to make up the lost time that I maybe rushed a little into this.”

“John,” Mycroft began and took John’s hands into his. “Am I rushing you into this?”

John shook his head and smiled. “No, Mycroft. I want you and I want this, but as soon as I slow down, as soon as I begin to think about everything… I’m not fifteen anymore. I’ve fallen into this head over heels, but I’m too old to think that’s a good idea.”

Mycroft held a John’s hands a little tighter and John wondered if his left would begin to shake if Mycroft would let go. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” whispered John. “But sometimes I’m afraid it will end.”

“Not as long as I can help it,” smiled Mycroft and squeezed John’s hands. He kissed John softly and John grinned a little sheepishly at Mycroft afterwards.

“Okay,” grinned John. “It’s okay. Thanks. I’m sorry for being such a mess sometimes.”

Mycroft smiled. “Let’s not talk about this anymore. The sandwiches look delicious.”

“Okay,” muttered John and gave Mycroft another smile. Mycroft rose from his chair and sat down across from John. He reached across the table and squeezed John’s hand.

 

* * *

  
After lunch Mycroft helped John with the dishes, rolled up his sleeves and set to work. “Dinner will be a surprise. Go! Get out!” he had laughed and John had reluctantly left the kitchen, his eyes almost unable to leave Mycroft’s elegant, freckled forearms. 

John waited impatiently in the living room, catching Mycroft instantly as he emerged from the kitchen. He caught his slim wrists, one in each hand, then drew his fingers up from the rounded caput ulnae to his elbows, the pointy olecranon, the humeral epicondyles protruding sharply on each side of his elbow, fine strands of muscles drawing down to the wrist from them.

Mycroft’s skin was milky white on the inside of his arms, his veins like purple rivers on a map. John ran his hands down to Mycroft's wrists again, his thumbs brushing against the pale skin where firm muscle gradually gave way to hard bundles of sinew about halfway down.

If Mycroft thought anything strange of it he didn’t let on. His eyes were opened wide and he was studying John with some fascination. John in turn lowered his eyes to Mycroft’s long, fine, sinewy hands and knuckles defined under the soft stretch of skin, though hardly any prominent veins showing.

John smiled softly, raising one hand to rub his thumb over a single, prominent vein in the crease of Mycroft’s elbow, then reached up and undid Mycroft’s tie, unbuttoning the collar and the next button underneath. A few daring, dark curls reached up to the hollow between his clavicles, even slightly more pronounced now by the V of the tense sternocleidomastoids reaching down from each side of his head from behind his ears. John felt the incredible allure of the human body grasp him again, in all the glorious novelty it had held for him as a student. All in all, a lot of this was new to him, a new body to get accustomed to, new textures, new proportions. Part of him wondered if he would ever tire of Mycroft, of exploring him.

Mycroft just smiled, softly, his wide grey eyes taking in every detail of John’s efficient and affectionate movements. When John had been still for a moment Mycroft raised his hands to John’s shoulders, pressed a kiss to his forehead and then pulled him into a gentle embrace. John smiled into Mycroft’s chest, quite aware of their height difference and how he would not be able to kiss Mycroft without the man's co-operation - quite a new development in his love life so far. A chuckle passed John’s lips and he hugged Mycroft’s waist just a little tighter.

“Thank you,” smiled John.

“What for?” Mycroft asked, pressing another kiss onto the top of John’s head.

John smiled, rubbing himself a little against Mycroft. “Just because. Never mind.”

“Oh, do tell,” muttered Mycroft, his fingers running through John’s hair.

John parted slightly from Mycroft and rubbed his waist. “You’re gorgeous, sexy, intelligent. And you’re here with me. Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” whispered Mycroft and leaned in for a kiss. “What do you want to do now?”

John nearly bit his tongue at the answer that wanted to come over his lips and shrugged with a small smile. “Watch a film? I’ve got some on my computer.”

Mycroft nodded and John walked him over to the couch where his laptop stood. He opened it and opened the film folder.

“You have an impressive amount of classical war themed films on this,” Mycroft stated, reading through the files’ titles.

John smiled sadly, “Well, sometimes the 280 minute version of ‘Das Boot’ is the only thing to take away five hours of war. As ironic as it sounds.”

Mycroft nodded, but was quite sure this was not the time or place for such thoughts. He didn’t like tense John, he wanted John laughing and joking. “I hope you don’t mind that I’d like to see something a bit more relaxing.”

“Not at all,” replied John. “What about… _‘Shrek - Forever after’_?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “What is it about?”

John blushed a little, embarrassed that he did have the movie, he was not exactly the target audience, “It’s about an Ogre who fell in love with a princess he was supposed to save for someone else. This is actually a later part of the series and I haven’t seen it, so no idea.”

His tongue nearly stumbled and he felt the heat on his cheeks intensify. Surely Mycroft would stare at him and wonder what he’d got himself into.

“I’m not sure I should see this one if I’ve not seen the first.”

To John’s surprise it sounded like honest regret, not a quick excuse to get out of watching the movie, so he went on: “Oh, it’s okay. You’ll get most of it quite easily if you pay attention. They always do a small retelling of the story so far. I saw the third first and did fine.”

“All right,” smiled Mycroft and nodded, hoping his mild bewilderment at John owning children’s movies didn’t show.

They shifted a little, Mycroft sat behind John, John leaning against Mycroft’s chest, his laptop on his knees. Mycroft wrapped his arms around John and John let out a content sigh.

They both smiled softly and watched the movie playing out on his laptop’s screen.

To John’s surprise Mycroft laughed at the right moments and then there where those moments when his arms wrapped just a little tighter around John. Towards the end the latter took over and John felt Mycroft burying his face in John’s hair. John placed his hand over Mycroft’s and gently stroked the soft skin on the back of his hands.

The film ended and John rubbed Mycroft’s knee soothingly. Mycroft’s arms loosened slightly, but he kept rubbing his cheek against the back of John’s head slowly. John heard him inhale forcefully and exhale with a sigh.

“Did you like it?” John asked and closed his laptop.

“It was surprisingly amusing, but also quite deep,” Mycroft muttered, still not letting go.

John smiled and rubbed Mycroft’s knee again. “What do you want to do now?” John asked.

Mycroft shrugged slightly and his hands roamed softly over John’s chest and belly. “Do you have another film you think I ought to have seen?”

John nodded. “Oh, of course. But I think I need the bathroom first.”

“Of course,” mumbled Mycroft and released John from his embrace. John got up, gave Mycroft a quick peck on the lips and was off to the bathroom. Mycroft went to the kitchen to check up on the dinner’s progress.

John came to the kitchen and tried to peek over Mycroft’s shoulder, but Mycroft wouldn’t have it and manoeuvred John backwards out of the kitchen. John found himself reimbursed with a kiss.

“You will find out later,” smiled Mycroft.

“Why is it that much of a secret?” John asked, a little suspicious.

Mycroft grinned. “Just because I can make it a surprise. Also, you’re so incredibly adorable when you want to find out what’s the secret. Let me just go to the bathroom myself.”

 

* * *

  
They settled on the sofa again, John between Mycroft’s long legs.

This time John had opted for “Never say never again” and felt secretly gleeful at Mycroft’s doubtful expression. It was one of John’s favourite Bond movies, not taking itself and the aging secret agent so seriously.

And, considering recent events, John allowed himself to find a certain interest in the protagonist.

John was feeling slightly peckish by the time the movie was over and Mycroft agreed that it was time for dinner. But John had something else in mind first. He put the laptop away, stretched and turned around.

“You’re so handsome,” muttered John and kissed Mycroft.

Mycroft returned the kiss and wrapped his arms around John. “So are you.”

They exchanged languid kisses, eyes closed and hands roaming slowly but never straying into dangerous territory.

It felt good, familiar, a bit like coming home.

 

* * *

  
  
Eventually they tore themselves away from each other and Mycroft left for the kitchen, John slowly trailing behind. He felt a little useless as Mycroft refused help with setting the table and serving dinner, but on the other hand he was still kind of high from their making out.

“You could open a bottle of wine,” Mycroft said and John eagerly took up the task, pouring them a generous amount each.

Just right then Mycroft served up and motioned for John to sit.

When they were both seated and John had complimented Mycroft on his cooking they fell silent for a moment. Of course not for long, Mycroft was far too curious for that.

“So, tell me about yourself.”

John laughed slightly and looked down on his plate. “You know me. Maybe better than I do myself.”

Mycroft shook his head softly. “I know things about you, with the help of MoD files I could verify some of the facts as well, but I certainly don’t know you,” he said with a smile that warmed John’s heart instead of making him feel threatened like the statement easily could have.

“So,” John began after a moment. “Afghanistan. Wasn’t my first trip, but you know that. Obviously. And never been injured save for that broken toe on my first trip when I stubbed said toe during a night alarm.”

Mycroft chuckled and John joined in.

“I never had a problem with going abroad. In fact I liked it. I was unattached and in between missions I was fine with living in the barracks. I’d given up my flat and most of my stuff was stored away in boxes. When my parents retired to Wales I sold my furniture and sent a few boxes along with them, I kept one or two here in the barracks or with Harry when I was abroad. I had six years worth of student loans to pay off so I was quite happy to save the rent and everything. But that doesn’t mean I had saved a lot by the time I… was sent back.”

Mycroft nodded.

John sat in silence for a moment, eating a few bites of his food and taking his time sipping at his wine. “Can’t remember much of what happened exactly,” he continued, a strain on his voice. “One minute I was taking care of people myself and the next I was writhing on the ground with the feeling of my arm having just been ripped off. The rest is just a succession of pictures in my head; Bill, a helicopter, bright lights and somebody asking me to count down from ten. Personally I thought I never got past seven but I’ve been told I’d been reciting poetry.”

They both chuckled at that.

“I became conscious a few days later. I was in Kabul, they flew me out a few days later. Developed sepsis and before I knew it I was back in London, alone and with a therapist who thought a blog, of all things, might help me get rid of my psychosomatic limp.”

Mycroft reached across the table and put his hand over John’s.

“But,” laughed John and resisted the urge to pull away, “that doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“It matters,” Mycroft reassured him, his voice soft and quiet. “Because that’s why you are here. That might not be the best comfort or even a valid reason, but it’s true. You would not be here with me if things had gone differently. I, for one, am more than thankful for this. As cruel and selfish as it is.”

John swallowed and looked down, then back up at Mycroft, nodded and sighed.

 

* * *

 

 

They finished dinner and cleaned up, then cuddled up on the sofa, both of them reading. John had borrowed a book from one of the shelves and read it at a slow pace.  
After a while Mycroft closed his book and just smiled at John for a moment.

“Bath time?” he asked and John looked up from the book. He smiled when Mycroft took his hand, entwined their fingers and led them both upstairs.

“I have to admit, I haven’t had a bath in a very long time,” Mycroft said.

“I’ll run the bath, you get undressed,” John all but ordered. He knelt down by the tub and adjusted the tabs until the water was at an acceptable temperature. “I’ll get my pyjamas.”

“Of course,” smiled Mycroft and stared down at the water filling the tub while John crossed the hallway to the guest room. His bag was still on the bed, almost untouched. He got his pyjamas and chuckled softly. He hadn’t quite expected to spend all his nights in Mycroft’s bed and quite in the way they had.

John returned to Mycroft’s bedroom and put his pyjamas down on the end of the bed. He turned to the bathroom and stopped, enticed by the picture before him.

Mycroft was still standing by the side of the tub, his cuffs undone, his waistcoat and shirt unbuttoned, all in all looking a little lost.

“Strip and get in,” John said gently and pulled his own shirt over his head.

Mycroft nodded and undid his trousers, hesitating a little. John dropped his shirt and stepped over to Mycroft, beginning to unbutton his trousers. “Let me take care of that.” 

He carefully folded the fine fabric of the waistcoat and put it down on a surface as far away from the water as possible and repeated the task with the shirt. Eventually Mycroft’s trousers followed, socks and underwear discarded less ceremoniously in the small laundry basket. John ushered Mycroft into the tub and finished undressing himself, taking less care with his own clothes.

Eventually he touched Mycroft’s shoulder and muttered, “Make some space for me.”

Mycroft was confused for a moment but then skidded a little forward. John slipped in behind Mycroft and wrapped him in a soft embrace. It took a moment but Mycroft began to relax and sank back against John, resting his head against John’s shoulder. John smiled, running his fingers through Mycroft’s hair.

“I have to admit, this is nice,” muttered Mycroft.

“It is, isn’t it?”

Mycroft's hand wandered to John’s knee and his fingers drew a small pattern on it. “You feel different under water.”

John leaned back and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. They exchanged the occasional soft words and jokes, but also enjoyed the silence and the physical closeness. Mycroft relaxed completely into John’s embrace and became almost limp.

John smiled to himself and closed his eyes. Mycroft was warm and solid against him and John imagined how Mycroft looked, rather than crane his neck and try to catch a glimpse.

He felt like he could easily get used to this, to them.

Maybe, he mused, heads over heels wasn’t so bad.

 

* * *

 

 

When the water temperature had sunk considerably, John let go of Mycroft. 

“This is wonderful,” muttered John, “but it’s getting a little cold.”

Mycroft nodded and straightened. He got up, John getting a good close-up on Mycroft’s bottom. Although he wanted to press a kiss to the soft skin he did feel more of a softening in his heart than a tightening in his groin. It was a pleasant change to their passionate days and evenings and John smiled to himself as he watched Mycroft drying himself off. Mycroft turned to John and frowned a little when he saw John still in the water. Quickly John rose and left the tub himself, accepting a fresh towel from Mycroft.

They dried off in silence, almost a little ashamed and avoiding each other’s eyes.

John quickly slipped into his pyjamas and Mycroft took the towel from him to discard it into the laundry basket in the bathroom. John was standing in the room and looking a little forlorn, even when Mycroft returned. There was a confused silence between them for a moment.

“Want me to...” John broke off and cleared his throat. “Where do you want me to sleep?”

Mycroft tilted his head to one side. “Is this an actual question?”

“I’m afraid it is,” mumbled John, blushing ever so slightly.

“You’ve spent the last two nights in my bed, what makes you think I want you to sleep anywhere else tonight?”

John closed his eyes briefly, gathering the courage to speak his mind.

“Mycroft, I’m not good with going at the right pace in relationships. I stood you up for weeks and then we needed another week to get to our first kiss but we practically jumped straight to the sex from there. I don’t want to stall or rush into things the wrong way round. Do you want me to stay or do you want your bed for yourself? Either way is fine for me, I just need to know.”

“I enjoy waking up next to you, John. Maybe I cannot imagine that for the rest of my life, yet, but I certainly want to wake up next to you tomorrow.”

“I guess that’s fine. One day at a time. Maybe we should go with that for the rest of our lives. One day at a time,” muttered John, nearly frantic.

“Stop babbling,” smiled Mycroft and kissed John on the forehead.

“I'm just a bit... scared and a bit scarred. Can this work out? Can we work it out? What do we even have in common? You're busy ruling the country while I...” John trailed off.

“While you work two full time jobs, one as Sherlock’s nanny and the other healing the sick. You might not feel like you’re making a difference between the two, but you simply can’t see.”

John could keep neither the bitterness nor the sarcasm out of his voice, “Oh, but you can.”

“Of course I can,” smiled Mycroft and John was for once inclined to believe. Mycroft’s simple words, his conviction, calmed John’s doubts. “Let’s go to bed.”

John smiled and walked over to the bed. “Are you sure you want me to stay here with you?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Mycroft, in a slightly lower, almost warning tone.

John crawled into bed on the right side and watched carefully as Mycroft took off his dressing gown, revealing the combination of night-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and joined John under the duvet. He reached over to the bedside table and switched the light off.

They were both lying on their backs, a moment of awkwardness passing between them.

“May I?” Mycroft asked and turned towards John.

“Sure,” John replied and instantly an arm dropped over his chest. With a smile John turned away from Mycroft but snuggled deeply into the embrace. 

“All these years I dreamed of this,” Mycroft whispered.

“Of me? In your bed?” smirked John, despite the heavy shudder that went through him when Mycroft’s breath brushed over his ear.

“Of someone... showing me what feels like to be... loved.”

“You’ll always be loved,” whispered John.

“So will you.”

John’s heart was beating fast and his throat getting tight. “Good night,” he whispered.

“Good night,” smiled Mycroft and pressed a soft kiss to the spot behind John’s ear. The doctor pulled a bit on Mycroft’s arm, wrapping it a bit tighter around himself.

Warm, solid and steady.

 

* * *

 

 

John woke the next morning to the sensation of a warm hand running over his chest. He stretched and let out a contented sigh.

“Mmm, good morning.”

“Good morning,” replied Mycroft. “I’m afraid it’s a bit early, but it was just so tempting…”

John shook his head and trapped Mycroft’s hand under his when he sensed Mycroft was about to pull it back. “It’s okay.”

Mycroft pressed his palm against John’s body again and John withdrew his hand. Mycroft continued to gently rub John’s chest and John moaned happily again. John was quite sure Mycroft was aware on the effect this touch had on John, his nipples hard and sensitive under Mycroft’s palm. The action had another effect as well and John moaned silently as he felt himself grow hard rather quickly.

John could hardly see Mycroft in the still semi-dark room, only able to make out the outline of Mycroft looming over him. John still reached out and cupped Mycroft’s cheek. He found Mycroft’s stubble strangely alluring, maybe because or although John had never given his own facial hair much thought.

For the third morning now John had found himself contemplating the rather soft, almost plush-like quality of Mycroft’s stubble. The hair was a lighter than those on his head and shimmered almost like copper when the light hit it at the right angle.

“The upside of being awake so early is that we have enough time. Do you want to...?” whispered Mycroft, his voice slightly shaky towards the end.

“God, yes,” breathed John and they sat up near simultaneously, quickly taking off their respective shirts. They sank back into the pillows and each other’s embrace, kissing eagerly. Slowly their hands began roaming, running over each other’s body, still exploring but already meeting familiar terrain as well. Their eagerness gave way to careful touches and slower kisses, to their constant desire for each other.

“Can I... look at you?” John asked carefully, parting from Mycroft after a slow kiss.

After a moment that seemed like an eternity Mycroft nodded and reached for the light switch. The twilight exploded into brightness and Mycroft closed his eyes against the glare, though a little longer than necessary. When he finally found the strength to open his eyes again John was kneeling next to him, a slight smile playing around his lips as he let his gaze run over Mycroft, sprawled out before him. There was something else in that gaze, Mycroft realised, a thinly-veiled hunger and desire.

“You’re beautiful,” muttered John, his fingers brushing over Mycroft’s body, gently up his belly and chest, then down his side with more pressure until John gripped Mycroft’s hip.

Although Mycroft still felt exposed and vulnerable under John’s sensual scrutiny, he also felt powerful. His gaze dipped down to the fabric of John’s pyjamas stretching along the outline of his erection. It was exhilarating to know he could do this to John.

“Beautiful,” John mumbled again and straddled Mycroft’s hips, then bent down to kiss Mycroft. Mycroft’s hips buckled up, their cocks grinding together only separated by thin fabric. John gasped into their kiss, Mycroft taking advantage and slipping his tongue into John’s mouth, trailing it along the smooth plane of teeth and teasing John’s tongue.

Mycroft lifted his hands up to John’s face and pulled him even closer. He shivered a little when John’s chest slipped against his, feeling a telltale tingle of arousal under his skin. He grinned as John’s hands wandered down his sides and slipped just the tiniest bit under the elastic of his waistband. However that wasn’t everything John wanted.

Mycroft gasped as John kissed down his neck to his chest and the tip of his tongue flickered over a hard nipple. He continued and Mycroft wriggled underneath him, trying to get his erection into contact with John, but John wouldn’t have any of that. He held Mycroft’s hips steady in a lazy game for dominance and Mycroft would very happily give that up for this time if it meant John would continued to lick his nipples and tease them softly with his teeth.

John was balancing on his hands and one knee for a moment, forcing his other knee between Mycroft’s legs. It took little force to make Mycroft spread his legs and John positioned both his knees between them then. Mycroft spread his legs even further, in the hope that it would make John go lower, and was almost about to wrap his legs around his lover’s waist before he noticed the position he was in. For a moment Mycroft felt tension and shame crawling up his spine but he forced himself to form them into an arch of pleasure into John’s touch. John repeated that specific caress, a kiss just below the sternum, without the same result and continued downwards.

When he reached Mycroft’s hips he lingered. He pulled the waistband of his pyjamas down a bit and kissed the pale skin it revealed. He smiled and continued, biting lightly and sucking a spot over Mycroft’s right hip. Mycroft willed himself to stay still, but his breath came quick and rough.

John stopped and smiled, pressing a light kiss to the blossoming bruise, marked lightly with two rows of teeth impressions.

He pulled some more on the waistband of Mycroft’s pyjama bottoms and Mycroft quickly lifted his hips so John could pull them off altogether. John shrugged out of his own pyjama bottoms after he was done with Mycroft’s and lay down at Mycroft’s side. Mycroft turned towards John and gently kissed him.

John moaned against Mycroft’s lips and hooked one leg over Mycroft’s. In turn Mycroft grasped both their erections in one hand and stroked them together.   
“What do you want?” whispered Mycroft in a rare moment of confidence.

“You,” mumbled John in reply and opened his eyes to look up at Mycroft. Somehow John’s unwavering and open gaze robbed Mycroft of all his determination to not feel ashamed anymore. 

He tried to mask his embarrassment with a slightly sarcastic, “Besides the obvious.”

God, but he did hope it was obvious. He desperately wanted to believe that John wouldn’t suddenly realise this was not so obvious after all, that Mycroft’s flaws were much more obvious.

“Hm, besides the obvious? Can’t think of anything I want, but you know what I haven’t had in a long time?” mumbled John. “Sex in the shower.”

“In the shower?” Mycroft asked and brought his hand up to John’s shoulder. It was an interesting idea and maybe a change of scene was just what he needed to regain his composure. “Well, you know the way as well as I do.”

They got up together and padded over the bathroom, John’s hand in the small of Mycroft’s back. Mycroft smiled a little awkwardly as he turned on the water in the shower. John hardly noticed as his gaze was fixed on Mycroft’s back, travelled up to deliciously long expanse of his neck, the line of his jaw and the curve of his ear and his mussed hair.

And while Mycroft was still adjusting the water’s temperature John’s hand drifted a bit lower until cupped one buttock, then he drew his fingertips in those feather-light, electrifying touches over the sensitive skin until he could feel the tiny hairs standing up under his touch and Mycroft sucking in a sharp breath.

“Temperature’s fine now,” mumbled Mycroft and was torn between giving into his want and the dreadful shame and sense of awkwardness still in his limbs.

They stepped into the shower together and Mycroft smiled almost stupidly down at John. John pulled Mycroft into a kiss, one hand between them and slowly stroking Mycroft’s hard cock. “God, can you get any hotter?”

Mycroft shrugged, his eyes closed and nibbling on John’s ear. He was still feeling self-conscious, even with John pressed against him like this. He wondered for a moment if he would ever overcome this doubt completely.

But then came the moment when John’s touch overruled everything in Mycroft’s head and everything fell back into place. Mycroft gasped into John’s ear and wrapped his arm even tighter around John’s shoulders. “Don’t stop. Just don’t stop.”

John smiled triumphantly. He might not be able to read people very well but he began to understand Mycroft and his body a bit. He could tell an embarrassed blush from an aroused flush by now, he could tell when the tension left Mycroft and he began to just enjoy himself. He could tell by now how Mycroft sometimes fled into a kiss to avoid being looked at, how he held John tight and closed his eyes as if he couldn’t bear the risk of seeing disapproval lurking in John’s eyes.

“I’ll never stop,” muttered John, but slid out of Mycroft’s one-armed embrace nonetheless. He dropped to his knees a bit less than graceful and sat back on his heels for a moment, just admiring Mycroft. He brought his hands up to Mycroft’s hips and rubbed his thumbs over the hipbones, one hand ran higher up over Mycroft’s belly, to his waist, down his side over his thigh. “God, I want you. I want all this,” John whispered after he was done drinking in the sight.

John gently stroked Mycroft while he kissed along the line of his groin down to his balls. Mycroft let his head fall back and closed his eyes. His world was slightly unsteady and he leaned back against the wall.

John grinned against Mycroft’s skin as he felt him grow harder in his hand. He nibbled on the base of Mycroft’s cock, mouthing his hard shaft, licking along the tender skin. Mycroft groaned when John began sucking him, his fingers finding their way into John’s hair.

And eventually it was too much, the tight heat around his cock, the indecent, sloppy sounds John made while his head moved back and forth, fingers of one hand in a tight circle around the base of his cock, the fingers of the other hand digging  into the soft flesh of Mycroft’s arse.

“I’m coming,” breathed Mycroft and John withdrew, but kept licking and kissing down Mycroft’s cock to his balls, stroking Mycroft with long, deliberate movements.   
Mycroft came in a few spurts and John slowly released the testicle he’d sucked into his mouth. He leaned his forehead against Mycroft’s belly and held tight to Mycroft’s hip with one hand while jerking himself with his other. It didn’t take long before he was panting against Mycroft’s skin and came with a groan. Mycroft had grown curious and now looked down at John, taking in his content smile and how John leaned slightly into the touch of long fingers going through his hair. 

“Gorgeous,” muttered John when he had come down from his high. Mycroft was a little astonished and blushed without shame for once. John kissed the skin stretched over Mycroft’s hipbone where he had sucked on it earlier, a faint purple discolouration showing by now. A claim to Mycroft’s body, a mark visible to only those who saw Mycroft naked or at least nearly so.

Nobody else could take Mycroft to bed now and not know he was already taken.

John lifted himself up with a little less than ease and leaned against Mycroft. He chuckled slightly and kissed his lover’s shoulder. “God, that was good. I wish all my days started like this. Especially Mondays.”

“Yes, I assume that would be an appealing thought,” mumbled Mycroft and straightened up. As inclined as he might be to get out of bed and into the shower under these circumstances he was not at all inclined to step out of the shower now. “So… what do we do now? Scrub each other’s back?”

John grinned and turned Mycroft around, resting his forehead against Mycroft’s shoulders and wrapping his arms around his waist. He smiled to himself and closed his eyes, feeling the shift of muscles in Mycroft’s back. The taller man turned his head to see, but only caught a glimpse of John from the corner of his eye. His hands came to rest on John’s and gently traced the outline of each finger.

“I can’t believe you’re… I can’t believe I got myself such a handsome boyfriend,” mumbled John and pressed a kiss between Mycroft’s shoulder blades. “Not bad for a first try, hm?”

Mycroft lowered his head and stared down at his toes. “I can hardly believe you would have me,” he croaked in reply.

“Always,” muttered John and leaned his forehead against Mycroft’s back.

A small smile played around Mycroft’s lips and for the first time he was inclined to simply believe John.

“Hand me the soap, hm?”

Mycroft reached for a bar of soap and gave it to John. He took the soap and gently ran it over Mycroft’s back, breathing in the strangely appropriate scent of lime and lavender. Mycroft took a deep breath and braced himself against the wall as John ran the soap down his legs. John hummed as he traced the lean thighs and the curve of the calves down to his slim ankles and boney feet.

“Turn around,” whispered John after a moment of silence. Mycroft did so and found John watching him with keen eyes. He stepped closer until almost only his hand still fit between them, rubbing the soap in gentle circles over his chest and belly. “You’re so bloody beautiful to me. Don’t you dare to ever forget that.”

There was nothing Mycroft could do for a moment but nod silently, feeling a nearly childlike trust.

John cleared his throat and handed the soap back to Mycroft. Mycroft turned around and repaid the favour. He ran his long fingers almost methodically over John’s body, the soap and his palms running over every square inch of skin until it was slick with a film of soapy water. John enjoyed himself immensely; Mycroft’s fingers everywhere, tracing every line and curve he had traced before.

Then Mycroft turned him around and wrapped him into a protective embrace from behind, his long form pressed against John’s shorter back, arms holding him tight. “For once I don’t know what to say,” he whispered and John chuckled.

“Coming from you, that’s a compliment.”

Mycroft nodded and released his grip slightly. “Now that we have cleared up this point quite satisfactorily I think we are done with wasting water?”

John nodded and Mycroft stepped out of the shower first, handing John a warm, soft towel and then wrapped one around himself. John wrapped himself in the large towel and remembered how his mother had put the towels on the radiator for him as a child. A feeling of being loved implicitly washed over him.

Mycroft watched him carefully while drying himself off and smiled faintly at the content look on John’s face.

 

* * *

  
Mycroft was still getting dressed when John returned from the guest room, clad in his everyday clothes. Mycroft smiled slightly as he picked out a shirt, and put it on. John turned away slightly, still keeping one eye on Mycroft, and checked his phone. 

“Sherlock wants me to help him with a case,” John frowned.

Mycroft walked over to him and looked over John’s shoulder, then pressed his lips to John’s temple. “I can drop you off on my way to work.”

“And here I thought we were going to have breakfast in the Tower of London,” joked John lightheartedly. Mycroft responded with a quick, firm hug and turned back to getting ready for a day at the office. John turned his head slightly and gazed at Mycroft, currently knotting his tie, and smiled to himself.

He liked the affectionate side of Mycroft, the light brushing of fingers against his skin, the occasional arm around his shoulders or waist, the odd peck of lips. He couldn’t help wondering how this would translate into their everyday life, though. He wondered if they ever would spend some easy-going time together, where there would be the time and place for casual touches.

When they were both dressed, Mycroft picked up John’s weekender and carried it downstairs. John rolled his eyes affectionately and let Mycroft have his moment of chivalry. Mycroft in turn pressed a kiss against John’s lips and brushed his thumb over John’s cheek. “Coffee? Breakfast?”

“Just coffee, I think,” replied John and followed Mycroft to the kitchen. It was barely past seven as they sat down at the table, each nursing a cup of coffee. Mycroft reached over the table and put a hand over John’s.

“When will I see you again?” John asked.

“That is up to you,” whispered Mycroft, not able to look up. “I don’t want to rush you.”

John shook his head, although Mycroft couldn’t see him. “As soon as you want. Mycroft, you mean so much to me, I want to spend a lot more time with you.”

Now Mycroft dared to look up, smiling slightly.

 

* * *

 

 

They rode in the same black car as always and towards the address Sherlock had given John. He was lost in thought and feeling slightly uneasy. As soon as they had stepped outside, as soon as they had left the safe, defined space of Mycroft’s house, John had begun to feel awkward. What were the rules, how was he to proceed without making Mycroft feel uncomfortable? Where was the rule-book for dating reserved civil servants?

Eventually their journey reached an end and John was none the wiser of how to treat Mycroft in public. He also had missed Mycroft’s affectionate gazes in his direction.

“Well, John. Thank you for the weekend. I will have your bag sent over to Baker Street, if you don’t mind.”

“That would be great, thank you,” John smiled at Mycroft and squeezed his hand. “Good bye. Have a nice day.”

It seemed ridiculous after the weekend they’d had, after the morning they’d had, after their shower. However it seemed even more ridiculous to kiss Mycroft in the back of this car.

“Take care,” admonished Mycroft.

“I will,” promised John and, despite the awkwardness, pressed a kiss to the corner of Mycroft's mouth. He left the car and didn't turn to look back. He was too paranoid, almost expecting someone to watch.

Indeed, someone was watching the approaching doctor with a dark frown. 

“What’s going on here?” Lestrade growled. “If you’re still mad about what happened in the kitchen, that’s between you and me. There’s no need to drag THEM in.”

“Them?” John asked, genuinely confused.

Lestrade scowled and paused a moment to contain his anger, “I know that bloody car. Wherever it appears trouble follows. Be it disciplinary action or...”   
“Or?” Now John was interested, sensing an interesting story.

“Well, the first time it turned up Sherlock didn’t follow too long after,” admitted the DI, clearing his throat afterwards to shake off some kind of embarrassment.

A few pieces in John’s head finally clicked together. Sherlock wandered all too freely on and off crime scenes, really, even with Lestrade asking him for help. It did seem entirely like Mycroft to clear Sherlock’s way into his profession of choice, even if he didn’t approve.

John cleared his throat and tried to rid his expression of any hints to his line of thought. “Speaking of the devil, where is he?”

“Upstairs, third floor. He’s the first one in.”

“Mind if I join him?” John asked out of courtesy. He liked Lestrade and thought that the man deserved some respect. Despite what Lestrade thought that hadn’t changed over the kitchen incident. If anything had changed at all, John’s respect for Lestrade’s patience had increased.

Lestrade motioned for John to go on in, not following him, but turning to talk to Donovan about being extra careful with their investigations this time.

The blast of an explosion ripping through the quiet of a suburban London Monday morning, the hour when everyone was busy at home and getting ready to step out into the world, was the kind of thing he had wanted to prevent.


	13. Interlude: Everything you ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So you think your world's benign, so you think justice has a voice..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm really, really mean...

Despite the car alarms gone off due to the explosion, the fire-brigade rushing in, the shouting policemen, the world around Mycroft seemed to stand still and the only sound ringing in his ears was his own laboured breath. He was watching, eyes flickering back and forth, resting on the shouting DI – Lestrade, 42, tolerating Sherlock, childless divorcee, in a casual relationship – then, finally, the house. The places where walls were missing.  
  
Chunks of the first floor had been blown out of it, glass splinters, debris and dust settling all over the front yard and over the street.  
  
Another glance over the crowd and finally words penetrated his bubble.  
  
“Two. Third floor and one had just went in.”  
  
Mycroft's eyes fell closed.  
  
“No, none of my officers.”  
  
Nobody seemed to take notice of him, standing there, the car parked in some distance and the driver standing by its side. Waiting, not paying attention. He was paid to do that.  
  
Time drew out to eternity. An ambulance arrived and two medics rushed over to the front of the building with a stretcher. A fireman met them there and explained with words Mycroft didn't hear and gestures he didn't understand. He didn't understand a lot in that moment, those minutes.  
  
The stretcher went into the building, the medics remained outside. More breathless moments for Mycroft who still went practically unnoticed. Granted, everything felt out of sync like he was not part of the world, like this was a film playing before him. Nothing of the outside, no sound, no smell, not even the cold could penetrate whatever invisible shell was around him.  
  
Shock, something feebly whispered, the only thought that managed to get through his jammed synapses, the senseless, meaningless thunderstorm paralysing his neurones. He was fine, right?  
  
Eventually the stretcher emerged from the building. A prone, pale figure on it, wrapped in a blanket, with a neck brace and breathing mask, a fireman by its side holding an IV bag. The only thing Mycroft noticed – improbably, impossibly – was the steady beeping from the heart monitor attached at the foot of the stretcher. A life sign, faint and distant.  
  
Sherlock followed, rushing forward to the side of the stretcher and turned his head, baring teeth and snarling something at the medic following him. He was dusty, a little bloody, scratches on his face and bare hands.  
  
The brothers' eyes met and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then turned his eyes back to a medic who was trying to hold him back. Mycroft watched as Sherlock fought the medic off, shouting at him and followed John to the ambulance.  
  
Lestrade rushed forward, putting a hand on the medic's shoulder and nodded at Sherlock, whispered a few words. The medic threw his arms up in desperation and went over to the ambulance.  
  
Mycroft turned on his heels and walked back to the car, legs giving out just when he reached it and he leaned heavily on it. His hands balled into fists and he took deep breaths to calm down. With a shaking hand he reached down to open the door, slid in the car and almost broke down in the back seat – shivering, panting, holding back the tell-tale stinging in his eyes.  
  
He texted Anthea, not trusting his own voice, to make... an appointment with one DI Lestrade.  
  
Mycroft told himself he did not feel a thing.


	14. Slipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft acts irrational and John reacts and everything is in an quantum-like, undecided state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild, somewhat accidental self-harm as a way to cope with acute emotional distress.

John moaned slightly, blinking rapidly against the neon lights.

Hospital, was his first thought. There was no other place where one found oneself on ones back to stare up to a ugly, well-lit ceiling. That were a lot of ones; add a few zeros and he could double as a computer. John wheezed instead of chuckled and tested his freedom of movement.

“Sherlock?” he asked, grasping out to that one straw he always blindly hoped for. Also, he was hurt. It was either because of something Sherlock had dragged him into or the man had been just a feverish dream and John was still recovering from Afghanistan.

However Sherlock seemed very real when he answered in his deep voice, “Yes, John?”

It would have been too sad if Mycroft had been just a figment of his imagination, too, John mused.

“What happened?” It was a habitual question but then he ordered himself to think. He knew that he knew. Crime scene, explosion. “No, don't tell me. 'S all right, I know.” Being wrapped in Mycroft’s arms, the warm and soft duvet, experimental blow job and Mycroft hot and hard in his hand in the shower... not the time and place, John chided himself. “Are you all right?”

Slowly, carefully John pushed himself up a bit, blinking at Sherlock. Pale, he thought, but in his normal clothes. A few scratches on his face, dirt in his hair.

“Just a few scratches, nothing serious,” answered Sherlock.

The first bits of the worry in John's stomach broke off and vanished like ice breaking off the iceberg and melting. “What about everyone else?”

“Nobody else has been injured,” answered Sherlock, carefully choosing his words.

Although John's head was hurting he noticed the reluctance in Sherlock's statement. “But?”

“Lestrade's in trouble for letting civilians onto a crime scene. Gross negligence.”

John searched Sherlock's face for any sign of regret, of worry – he was surprised to see a bit of guilt lurking in the corners of his eyes, tension in his jaw line. How much did he care for Lestrade? The proverbial partner in crime, friends with benefits or was there more?

John sighed, “Mycroft can get him out of there, right?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I wouldn't be too surprised if he was the one grilling Lestrade himself.” He looked entirely too guilty and entirely not resentful enough for the statement.

“What?” asked John and nearly lurched upright, despite the pain. “Gimme your phone.”

“There's no mobiles allowed in hospital,” stated the detective in a flat tone but John knew him better than to assume Sherlock was without a phone.

“Give me your damn phone!” shouted John and Sherlock obliged, dialling Mycroft's number for him beforehand.

Why the reluctance, had he tried before? John shook of the thought, concentrating hard on the dialling tone and then the end of someone exhaling as the phone was picked up.

“Yes, what do you want?” came the indignant greeting from the other side. “Is John finally awake?”

“Yes, I am,” answered John, cold and harsh, and turned right to the topic, “Get off of Lestrade.”

There was a second of silence, then a surprised “What?”

John was siting more than straight in the bed now, tense and eyes empty as he continued, “I mean it, Mycroft. Get off his back. He doesn't deserve your wrath. I went there on Sherlock's request. It's not Lestrade's fault!” It was the same cold that he had felt when Mycroft had first told him of his marriage, of Giselle, of their arrangement. Only one conscious (angry, hurt, embarrassed and disappointed) thought circled his mind, though: How dare he patronise me?

Mycroft seemed to have found some of his usual slyness and replied in his silken drawl, “Sadly, my brother cannot be held responsible for dragging you to a crime scene, there is no proper law from keeping you away from a crime scene when the leading DI is inviting you there. However...”

“Oh, shut it!” shouted John, his anger finally showing. “I'm responsible for my own life. Don't blame someone else for the mistakes that I made!”

There was a long silence on the other end. Mycroft sounded entirely too soft, too small but John didn't pay attention to the tone. “I'm worried about you. Lestrade shouldn't have...”

“You were the one who fucking introduced him to Sherlock!” John shouted again. It was a long shot, he knew, but the way Sherlock was being decidedly passive and trying not to listen told him was all he needed to know. “I'll send you that damn key back if you insist on blaming Lestrade. I mean it. I don't need your mothering.”

There, it was done.

John's biggest advantage had been played out and if he had been able to see through the phone he would have seen the short flinching, the pain crossing Mycroft's features, the utterly shocked disbelief at the threat. He would have seen the doubt in the curl of his lips and the heartbreaking question, whether he had been betrayed by his feelings, flickering in his grey eyes.

But John didn’t, so, without a good-bye, he hung up and handed Sherlock his phone. The adrenaline rush subsided and John sank back into the pillows.

“The room is spinning. Why is it spinning, Sherlock?” he joked faintly and Sherlock got the subtle hint and rang for a nurse. One came a little later, checking John's blood pressure and Sherlock hovered nearby, having resolved not to leave John's bedside until he could be sure John was going to be all right.

 

* * *

  
  
It was an hour later that Lestrade appeared, hands in his pockets and looking somewhat lost in thought. “How is he?” he asked, leaning against the door frame to John's room.  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock replied, his eyes never leaving dozing John.  
  
Lestrade took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “Something peculiar happened. I was taken in and there was some kinda looney, almost looking as if he'd stepped out of some old picture, waistcoat, watch fob and everything. Questioned me for what felt like hours. He was bloody furious as if I'd interrupted his afternoon tea. Asked me what you and him,” he nodded towards John, “were doing on the scene. Suddenly left the room, came back a few minutes later, still furious, but a different kind. And he let me go without another word. Was that your doing?”  
  
“His,” replied Sherlock, nodding towards John himself now. “His alone, on both accounts. If he hadn't been injured you would have never been taken in and if he hadn't intervened you still would be under arrest, getting questioned by... the looney.” Maybe Lestrade was imagining it but Sherlock seemed to form that last word with a childish glee.  
  
“How come he has so much power?” Lestrade asked, frowning at the sight of John – pale, even against the white sheets.  
  
Sherlock chose his words carefully. It would not do to expose his brother to Lestrade. “Someone very powerful has taken a liking – maybe an unhealthy liking – to him.”  
  
“Now that you mention it, he did seem happier the last few times I saw him.” Lestrade stepped forward and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He relaxed slightly when Sherlock let him. After all those months he still had no idea when touching (especially publicly) was generally acceptable and when it wasn’t. “But you don't approve, do you?”  
  
Now Sherlock's expression darkened considerably. In his opinion all of this shouldn't have happened. Not like this. Mycroft should have kept his distance. “You see what happens. He's a liability to a very powerful man's state of mind. His emotions are getting unstable and he's becoming prone to rash reactions, like taking you in for questioning. Had there been no connection between John and this man there might have been an inquest, but no inquisition.”  
  
“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” muttered Lestrade to himself. He smiled slightly, despite the circumstances, when Sherlock lifted his hand up to cover Lestrade’s.  
  
John moaned slightly and his eyelids fluttered. He finally opened them, gripping the sheets tightly. “God, there’s an elephant in this room,” he whispered with a light chuckle.  
  
“John?” frowned Sherlock.  
  
“It’s sitting on my head,” came the cheeky but tired reply. “It feels like my skull is slowly being crushed.”  
  
“Lestrade's here,” Sherlock said apropos of nothing.  
  
“Hi,” waved the DI when John turned his head in his general direction.  
  
“Thank god,” whispered John. “It's not your fault.”  
  
“I'll get a nurse for some painkillers,” Sherlock muttered and took off.  
  
“Remember to bring back some for me, too,” joked John. He’d long since stopped taking his own health and state of injury seriously.  
  
Lestrade took Sherlock’s seat with a sigh. “How are you doing?”  
  
“Fine, I guess,” John replied. “Blunt trauma from the blast, probably a concussion, cracked ribs maybe, but no other fractures. My best guess.” Between his outburst earlier and the painkillers he hadn't had much time to make a list of his injuries.  
  
Lestrade seemed apprehensive when he asked, “How long till you'll recover?”  
  
“Depending on whether there's those cracked ribs or not, depending on the tissue damage, depending on my head. I'd say at least a week till I’ll cope without the painkillers - if there's nothing that needs surgery. Did I have surgery?”  
  
“Not that I'd know,” admitted Lestrade. But he wanted to ask the question that had been on his mind for the past hour, “I heard you got me out of trouble. Some guardian of yours. Must be pretty high up.”  
  
John's face set in a mask of ice. “Someone who got you into trouble in first place.”  
  
“Seems to care a lot for you, that guy. Sherlock thinks almost too much.”  
  
John's expression went bitter and he turned his head away. “I'm beginning to wonder if that might be true.” This vengeful, wilful man wasn't the Mycroft he had fallen in love with.  
  
And since when did he admit to himself that he loved Mycroft? Honest to god _loved_ him?  
  
Lestrade, on the other hand, wondered if he should tell John that he thought a relationship would do him a world of good. “Well, I'm glad you're... you're going to be okay. And I'm glad that I'm not gonna be executed. Although I feel a bit stupid for letting you run into a unsecured crime scene.”  
  
John took the chance at changing the topic. “What happened? I remember bits, but I can’t really be certain. Let alone know about the circumstances.”  
  
The worry drained from Lestrade's face and was replaced with professional coolness as he began to explain, “A macabre fail safe. The first-floor bathroom was blown up and you were caught in the blast. The bathtub was filled with explosives, most of the explosion was directed towards the ceiling. Still enough force to blow the walls away and you back down the stairs. We don't know what exactly set off the explosion, yet. But it was no coincidence. We suspect a timer.”  
  
“And Sherlock? He looks a bit worse for wear, too.”  
  
“Luckily he wasn't over the centre of explosion, so he wasn't directly affected. But of course he disregarded any safety protocol. Hurried down to you and all that.” A fond smile seemed to ghost over Lestrade's lips.  
  
John nodded. Another thought was running through his mind. Mycroft could have been only a few streets away by the time of the explosion.  
  
Again Mycroft occupied his thoughts and eventually his heart. He remembered his angry phone call. His threat of sending the key back.  
  
He bit his lower lip, wondering if Mycroft would forgive him.

 

* * *

  
  
When finally a doctor came to see him John fought hard to be talked to like a normal human being, let alone a trained doctor. Finally, after dropping some rather nice and long medical terms, the man with the tired eyes and in the subtly wrinkled lab coat finally noticed John had medical qualifications and smiled a weary smile, giving John a quick, accurate summary of his situation.  
  
John nodded and thanked him, not envying someone who might have been on his second shift today, judging by his age and the stubble on his cheeks. He looked back to his own early years, when sometimes he hadn't seen his flat for days on end, doing shifts and being on call and sleeping curled up under a nicked shock blanket on the couch in the doctor's lounge.  
  
It were the easiest thoughts to occupy himself with when Sherlock and Lestrade had gone and John began to feel like a rather rapidly rotting fruit, taking hours instead of days, in his bed.  
  
It was barely four o'clock when John demanded to be allowed to get up, his IV had just finished and he needed to pee and – god damn it! – he knew how much he could take and do and he was positive he could walk.  
  
First attempts went well and so he was awarded the small liberty of being allowed to take care of bathroom business alone and – something he felt a little ambiguous about – dinner.  
  
In between making a fuss about not being an invalid – despite every document still claiming otherwise – and thinking of anything but Mycroft (there it was again, “Try not to think of a pink elephant”, anyone?) John dozed. He was glad Baker Street was only a night away. A night in a hospital gown and his undies because Sherlock, obviously, couldn't be arsed to bring him anything decent to wear for the next sixteen hours.

 

* * *

  
  
It was shortly past half-ten in the evening when John awoke from his light sleep, expecting to see the night nurse, there to take his vitals and give him his meds. His expectations were not met.  
  
“I didn't mean to wake you,” came Mycroft's silken drawl from the well-lit rectangle of the door.  
  
John blinked against the light, burning in his eyes, but he feared closing his eyes would make Mycroft's silhouette vanish. An almost painful longing overtook him to see the man's features. “It's all right, I've been dozing all day. It's an opportunity that might not come again so soon. They're going to release me tomorrow. The worst I have is a sprained ankle.”  
  
“Good. That's good to hear,” Mycroft uttered carefully.  
  
John wanted to beg him to come closer, to step out of the backlight and become real, substantial, in the twilight of the room, rather than a two-dimensional shadow, flat and unreadable. “Can we talk, Mycroft? I'm sorry for what happened, I'm sorry for shouting at you, but we need to talk about the way you sometimes just walk all over me.”  
  
Mycroft nodded slightly. “Yes. Dinner? Eight thirty tomorrow, I'll send a car around to Baker Street at eight.” He knew John couldn't see him, but he still kept his features schooled.  
  
John held back a sigh, “Nothing too fancy, please.”  
  
“I won't stoop as low as going to one of your precious little fish and chips shops.” There, there it was. His hurt showing, dripping from the cool words. It pained Mycroft even more to realise John couldn't have missed it if he was unconscious.  
  
And John didn't. “I'm not expecting that. I just want to fit in by wearing a jacket and tie.”  
  
“Yes, of course. I wish you a good night.” Curt, cold, clear words. Mycroft turned, turned because he knew his facade was going to fall any second now and just the slightest chance of John seeing that, as short as the moment might be, hurt.  
  
“Good night, Mycroft,” replied John, almost desperate. “I really look forward to talking to you.”  
  
“I will see you tomorrow,” muttered Mycroft and strode off, the door closing slowly behind him.  
  
John sighed, whispering another “Good night” after Mycroft was gone.  
  
He was relieved when the night nurse came a few minutes later and his intravenous painkillers made him wonderfully drowsy and he slipped into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

  
  
In a study half-way across London Mycroft sat in the twilight, the desk lamp before him shining down mercilessly on a tumbler glass half-full with amber liquid, but leaving everything outside the spotlight in an uneasy yet merciful darkness. The world before Mycroft's eyes began to shift and sway and he knew he would regret this in the morning, but for now he grasped the glass, pressing it against his lips and threw his head back, swallowing without tasting something entirely too old and expensive to do that. Still, half a bottle had already gone this way and Mycroft wasn't quite ready to stop yet.  
  
He hadn’t felt this miserable since... well, he never had.  
  
He had never felt this rage, this pain, this fear pulse mercilessly through his veins (though, veins didn’t have a distinct pulse, did they? He tried to remember these useless facts), making his whole body ache and strain in return, as if it wanted to come apart just to escape this agony. Agony, yes, agony it was. He hadn’t felt much of it until he'd heard John’s voice on the phone. He should have been happy, he should have rejoiced that John was alive and awake and going to be just fine.  
  
The words, though. They had hurt more than anything, the first stab quickly morphing into a dull throb, like a abscessed puncture wound, over the course of the afternoon.  
  
 _“I'll send you that damn key back if you insist on blaming Lestrade.”_  
  
Mycroft's lips curled into a bitter, painful smile. Even drugged and injured John was ever so self-less and determined. The perfect team player, the perfect leader, the perfect soldier. Perfect John.  
  
 _“I mean it.”_  
  
Mycroft had never doubted it for a second. John had, after all, shot a man to save Sherlock from his own stupidity. Not that Mycroft wouldn't have done the same, quite on the contrary. Mycroft was in awe (not that he would admit it to anyone but his own heavily inebriated self) of John. He could not only bear Sherlock's antics, he was everything Sherlock needed and then some.  
  
He was everything that had kept Mycroft alive, had made life worth living those last months, that last week especially. Not the civil servant, not the shadow government – Mycroft the human, the being beneath the suits and starched collars and ties and black cars and abandoned warehouses, the Mycroft capable of love and happiness. He had made Mycroft feel worth something, even stripped of his suits. He had felt wanted for something else than his power.  
  
 _“I don't need your mothering.”_  
  
Mothering. Was that all John thought of his care? Had John adopted Sherlock's self-important, condescending opinion of Mycroft's care, convincing himself it wasn't care because he didn't need care and being cared for only meant admitting defeat to emotion and family ties when he once, or twice, relied on that care?  
  
The dull pain in Mycroft's chest expanded, like cancer spreading throughout his body. Nothing physical then, he thought when he downed another glass of the Single Malt that'd been mostly decoration so far. Like everything else in his life – no, existence – had been decoration before John.  
  
His body was mercifully numb by now, his mind never enough. His mind was racing, tumbling, falling into memories he'd rather forget right now – but there they were, memories of John by his side, in his arms, his touch, his soft lips and hot body and his breathtaking kiss.  
  
Mycroft's fist came down on the desk with a loud bang that almost startled him. He had felt his wrist smash against the desk's edge but he didn't feel any pain. Carefully – in the harsh light of reality it was more likely a rather clumsy movement – he moved his wrist, brought his left hand up and pressed against the smooth, hard plane of bone under his skin. There were no palpable edges, nothing was yielding to his probing fingers, nothing broken, in all likelihood. Just a nice, comfortable feeling of pressure settled in his skin at that point.  
  
Pain, he realised, curbed from the sharp prickling thing he knew to something almost pleasant by the alcohol. He smiled, coldly, stupidly, to himself. He did rather like the feeling. It took his mind off the harsh pounding in his chest in a way the alcohol couldn't. He tried to think, think of what he knew he'd known where pain could be inflicted easily, readily and rather harmlessly – but the alcohol was too much, the pain in his wrist subsiding too fast and despair took him over.  
  
There was nothing he could do, nothing he still believed in. Dread, rather than joy, set in his gut as he thought he would have to make arrangements for dinner to- (a glance to his watch) today. He didn't believe John was sorry or wanted to see him ever again after dinner. Still he wrote a terribly scribbly note to himself and took almost a handful of the mineral and vitamin tablets he hoped would take the edge of his hangover in the morning. He smiled rather ironically as he swallowed the lot with the help of more of the amber liquid. Then he simply switched off the light and bedded his head on his folded forearms.

 

* * *

  
  
It was half past seven when he woke – was woken – and he couldn't entirely remember when he'd fallen asleep.  
  
“Aspirin and magnesium, sir,” came a familiar female voice and Mycroft's eyes slowly adjusted on the sizzling liquid in a glass set before him. “A cold shower and a change of clothes might be in order as well. I took the liberty of making reservations for your dinner date, eight-thirty, a cosy little table for two, the driver has orders to be at Baker Street at eight.”  
  
“Thank you,” mumbled Mycroft, his mind following his assistant's words easily, but not quite up to leading the race himself, yet. He greedily gulped down the faintly lemon-tasting water, hoping the lack of pain was partly due to his precautions the night before and not just the dulling effect of residual alcohol in his blood stream. Getting up proved as a bit of a problem and he had to steady himself on his desk – a sharp glare daring not-Anthea (her eyes had for once left her Blackberry and gave her swaying boss a concerned once over) to come over and, god forbid, try to help him.  
  
He reached his bathroom with just a little help from the walls and the shower proved helpful, as did brushing his teeth (so vigourously his gums would be somewhat sore) and using a lot of toothpaste and mouthwash to get rid of the funny taste and to stop his breath reeking of alcohol.  
  
When he was finally around to getting dressed and fumbling with his cufflinks he detected a livid bruise just around his right wrist. He remembered his fist coming down on the table and his curious thoughts about the pain. A cool smile played around his lips as he contemplated the sore spot. His fingers began to dig into the tender skin and a throbbing started in protest. It was a nice pain, a pleasant pain, sharp and easy to focus on. Something he was in control of.  
  
Mycroft Holmes usually was not a stupid or a overly-dramatic man so he recoiled from himself when he realised what he was doing. Yet there was his heart beating painfully in his chest and he cursed himself for feeling and pulled the cuff as far over the bruise as it would go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the first, real somewhat unbetaed chapter of the story. The more often I read it the stranger it felt. I hope it's not as ooc as it feels, but I imagine that this is a situation they've not been in before, so a little ooc is bound to happen.


	15. The right thing to do

Sherlock remembered to pick John up the next morning after the ward round, bringing him a fresh set of clothes and his cane for the ankle. He even pretended to listen to the nurses instructions for John's medication. He took John's bag, the painkillers and ushered John out of the hospital. They were quiet on the ride back home and when they arrived back at their flat John bore Mrs Hudson's fussing with a smile. When she was gone it grew quiet between John, sitting in his armchair, and Sherlock, tapping away on his notebook.  
  
“Sherlock?” John finally asked, “Is Mycroft... resentful?”  
  
“Resentful?” Sherlock replied, not quite looking up.  
  
“I was quite... rude on the phone, I think. I was in pain, I was angry, I felt guilty for getting Lestrade into trouble. Will he bear a grudge?”  
  
Sherlock seemed aloof, not looking at John allthewhile fixing a cup of tea for him. “Why are you telling me all this? This is something you should save for Mycroft.”  
  
John swallowed hard, “Will he listen?”  
  
Sherlock furred his brows and then stated, “He'll send the car around at seven.”  
  
“Eight, he said.”  
  
“Hm, then he either has an appointment or he's trying to bid his time. Both would be unusual.”  
  
“But he'll listen?” John almost pleaded now.  
  
“Yes. He hasn't talked to you, yet. He is distancing himself from you that means he is trying to focus on logical actions. It would be logical to listen to you.”  
  
John's heart clenched painfully in his chest. “So, he's... trying to get rid of me.”  
  
“Possibly,” muttered Sherlock, oblivious to the desperate and wounded look on John's face.

 

* * *

  
  
John eventually promised Mrs Hudson that he was fine and that he'd be okay if she went to go out with Mrs Turner like she was wont to do on Tuesdays. He felt fine – although his body and mind were numb, rather than fine – as he hobbled around the flat, making himself too strong coffee for the lack of anything real to do. Two hours later he felt the first thing since the night before when his stomach clenched uneasily and John realised he had had too much coffee and too little food.  
  
So John left the telly in favour of making himself some toast. Slices of roasted bread, spread with butter and John's favourite lemon marmalade. Except that the marmalade had put on a little white and grey fur coat inside its jar and John wasn't entirely sure if it was simply natural, accelerated by Sherlock's experiments (that were bound to leave the flat swarming with mould spores) or if the marmalade was one of Sherlock's experiments. With a sigh John resigned himself to honey, hoping that it wasn't poisoned. But right there and then John might not have cared about dying if it was quick and painless. He realised the thought should have worried him, so shortly after almost being blown up, but then he could always blame it on the painkillers.  
  
The easy numbness quickly went away, though, when John sat down with his toast, his coffee and couldn't help but sigh, the sound giving way to a miserableness he hadn't felt since sitting in front of his empty blog, contemplating what to write, contemplating what exactly hadn’t happened to him.  
  
Just that right now it did, things happened, too much even. Too much, save for Mycroft. But that had been too much, too, yesterday. John's mouth went dry and his stomach clenched with emotion, rather than hunger, and he felt like he would double over and fall from his chair, crumbling under the onslaught of emotion, any moment now.  
  
Of course he didn't, nobody ever did – except in films and Harlequin novels. He sipped on his coffee to wet his mouth and nibbled on his toast to chase away this unwelcome feelings. He might as well have been chewing on a slice of guilt, the honey too sticky, the coffee tasting too bitter and his stomach filling gradually with the sickening certainty of having hurt someone he loved and who – which was infinitely worse than John's own feelings on the matter – probably loved him in return.  
  
How could he have threatened Mycroft to leave him on the day he'd almost died? It was an irrational and stupid thing and John began to dread the dinner.

 

* * *

  
  
Sometime in the afternoon John had a long shower to wash away the stench of disinfectants and some of the hopelessness that had gripped him. A strangled half-cry left his lips as he stood under the shower spray as he remembered being close to Mycroft like this. On the one hand he felt like laughing, on the other hand he was miserable, wishing for Mycroft to be there with him.  
  
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” John gritted out between his teeth. He pressed his eyes closed and hoped the stinging in his eyes would go away then.  
  
He wasn’t exactly feeling better by the time he left the shower and just curled up on his bed, wearing nothing but a towel and stared into thin air. It was only then that his tears began to fall and he hugged a pillow, hoping that comfort would come.  
  
By the time John had calmed down he noticed it was getting dark outside. He kept lying on his bed until his mobile’s alarm went off, just at seven o’clock. He got up and dressed - just plain dark jeans, white t-shirt and shirt and a dark tie. He knew he had a midnight blue suit jacket tucked away somewhere in his wardrobe and decided to look for it after he had recovered from the slightly strenuous task that dressing had posed.  
  
Quarter to eight he could finally find the strength to tear himself from the musings he had slipped into. The jacket was just where he’d put it when he’d moved in with Sherlock what seemed like ages ago and he slipped into it. Downstairs he took his painkillers, grabbed his overcoat and sat down in the darkened living room until the doorbell rung at eight o’clock sharp.  
  
“I’ll get it, dear,” he heard Mrs Hudson call faintly from downstairs.  
  
“It’s okay, Mrs Hudson,” he called back and got up. “It’s for me.”  
  
He saw her standing by the foot of the stairs when he was halfway down and gave her a feeble smile.   
  
“Are you all right?” she asked quietly.  
  
“Yes, of course,” he answered. “I’m going out tonight.”  
  
Now she looked even more worried. “Are you sure?” She gave his cane an emphasising glance. Honest fondness crept onto John’s features. She had only seen him with his cane once or twice since he’d moved in and on those occasions he had been quite morose.  
  
“I am sure, Mrs Hudson. Don’t worry. The longer I’ll be away the better it’ll be. Trust me.”  
  
She smiled and went back to her flat while John limped to the door and stepped outside. He hoped he was right.

 

* * *

  
  
John entered the restaurant he was brought to at 8:29 and looked around for Mycroft. When he couldn't find him at first glance he asked a waiter for help. The young brunette led him up the stairs – which took some time with John's hurt ankle – and gestured towards the end of the gallery. John limped over and smiled sadly at Mycroft, sitting stiffly at the table.  
  
“Good evening,” he whispered once he had reached the table.  
  
Mycroft rose from his seat and helped John out of his overcoat but offered no other greeting, then pulled the chair out for John. “It seems we are back to the beginning,” stated Mycroft, gesturing towards John's cane.  
  
“The ankle, this time. It'll heal nicely if it's given the rest it needs.”  
  
There was a long pause that told John that something was wrong, that Mycroft wasn't at all all right. John desperately tried to fight the pain off, tried to deny that it hurt to see Mycroft's facade crumbling at the edges, tried to deny that he somehow relied on Mycroft's steady nature, his nonchalant replies and his smooth and impregnable facade.  
  
“I want to be frank and direct with you. I... was worried about you,” Mycroft admitted. “That is why reacted so harshly. I am no longer sure whether letting Sherlock run lose or... caring for you was the worse decision.”  
  
John felt like he'd been hit square in the face. “That... kind of hurts.”  
  
Mycroft gave him that slim, emotionless smile. “Well, it is true. Sherlock's renegade behaviour endangered you, caring for you led me to questioning this course of action. I have no solution to this problem.”  
  
The waiter came and John let Mycroft order “something light” for him.  
  
John tried to remember what they had said before, when the young man had vanished, and a concentrated frown appeared on his face – Mycroft was trying hard to not find it adorable, it would hurt too much and he was still aching from the night before, both his heart and his head.   
  
Of course John was oblivious to this thoughts and torn between smiling and frowning, picking up at Mycroft's last statement, “This problem is not like a mathematical equation with one exact solution.”  
  
“No, obviously it isn't. It is not even a quadratic equation with two definitive answers for a positive and a negative value,” smiled Mycroft to himself, not looking at John. There was a kind of sad amusement playing around his lips, as if he desperately needed this to be accessible to a scientific approach and tried to tell himself that it was fine that it wasn't. Though, nothing was fine.  
  
John had enjoyed his calculus but right now it was just too much effort to try and make up a witty reply with some binomial metaphor. “But we could start out with a question with a possible positive or negative answer. Would you still enjoy being with me? Could you try to enjoy being with me – without all the meddling, without protecting me, without easing my way? At least... not any more than before this... before we... happened.” It was a lame ending, he knew.  
  
“Once,” Mycroft began after staring at John for almost minutes, “There was someone I deeply cared for. I didn't realise it until he was dead and I couldn't express my feelings for him anymore. He died on a bus, in an explosion, on his way to work, at 9:47 on a Thursday in July. He is gone and I never got to tell him how much I cared. And, worst of all, if I had not called him... told him...” He stopped himself before his voice could break. “I had given him the day off,” he finally choked out, not more than a whisper but the words ringing loud in his ears.  
  
“Your assistant,” John concluded and Mycroft lowered his eyes. “But the explosion wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known there was going to be another one. Or where it would be. Even if you wouldn't have told him to come he might have done so anyway.” People, John thought, stupidly did things like that for the Holmes brothers – come to them whenever they needed them.  
  
Now Mycroft glanced sideways. “I didn't cause the explosion but I knew the public transport had been targeted already. It is in fact a strategy to to have a second explosion as soon as enough people have rushed in to help – as you should remember from your Army training. I know Sherlock and you have been targeted by criminals more than once. I should have been aware that you and crime scenes don't mix well. I should have kept you away from this danger.”  
  
They were served starters and they concentrated on the food for a bit. Still John's mind was racing and finally he tried to turn an old Holmesian argument against Mycroft, “Would it make any difference if you didn't care? Would your assistant be any less or any more dead?”  
  
Mycroft stared at John, just stared. “What are you trying to say?”  
  
“Many people die and you don't care and it's okay. You can change much, but not everything. Back when we first met you welcomed me back to the war. You told me to chose a side - and I’m not stupid enough to think that it meant choosing either you or Sherlock, rather than a normal, boring live or the extraordinary and macabre. Has this changed? Have I, personally, changed because you care? Mycroft, I want you to be happy, but you wouldn't be happy with a limping, bored version of myself with a tremor in my left hand and the urge to go out and chase criminals together with your brother. People die – and people live. You're not God.”  
  
A pained expression crossed Mycroft's face and he made no effort to hide it. “I may not be God, but I pride myself with being very good at taking care of those I... care for.”  
  
John sighed and went silent. He finished his soup and then watched Mycroft.  
  
His gaze was cast down and his eyes hidden by his lashes. Warmth filled John as he remembered the day at Kew Gardens, the easy feeling of it all, just tea with Mycroft, who in all likelihood had already been in love (it seemed wrong to think it, but it must be true) with John back then – and with this came a longing to reach out, cup Mycroft's cheek and brush a thumb over the fluttering lashes. Such a very delicate soul under his immaculate suit, hidden behind his constantly watchful nature. It seemed improbable, it seemed wrong, but John had glimpsed at it too often to ignore it.  
  
“So... what was that thing with the flowers?” John whispered, voice laden with tender emotion.  
  
A fond smile ghosted over Mycroft's lips and he finally looked up. “The flowers, yes. Grass, evergreens, heath, foxgloves. Usefulness, poverty, solitude, a wish.”  
  
John chuckled and wondered if this was true or just something his mind wanted to warp into a meaning. He hadn't known of any meaning, though he admitted he had picked rather ordinary, boring flowers.  
  
“Fern, baby's breath, a burgundy rose and red camellia,” Mycroft went on, eyes cast down again. For a moment John thought he saw tears welling in Mycroft's eyes. “Fascinating, happiness, unconscious beauty and unpretending excellence.” His voice was barely audible by the end.  
  
John smiled, a lump forming in his throat. Thankfully the embarrassed silence was broken by the waiter taking their empty plates away.  
  
“Do I even want to know about the Narcissus?” John tried to sound cheerful and cheeky. He failed miserably, at least in his own mind.  
  
“A particularly long-stemmed and usually yellow kind of Narcissus is the Narcissus jonquilla. It's very fragrant and it means 'affections returned' or 'I want my affections to be returned'. It is rather different from the egotism and vanity I'm sure you were trying to convey,” Mycroft answered, quietly and still keeping his gaze away from John's face.  
  
“Not anymore,” smiled John, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from welling in his eyes. It was the medication, he told himself. He was tired and on a thin line between being in pain and overdosing on his painkillers, he told himself.  
  
It took him until after the main course to admit to himself that it wasn't his medication, that he had barely taken half of his painkillers anyway, that the medication could only be blamed (if for anything at all) for making it harder to ignore the feelings he had for Mycroft – what a stupid idea anyway.

So he excused himself for a moment and locked himself in a bathroom stall, leaning against the cold tiles and breathing deeply. He wanted to slip down and curl up on the floor but forced himself to keep standing, biting his own hand when he felt a ragged sob rising in his throat. He quickly clamped his hand firmly over his mouth and held his nose, effectively cutting off all air supply. His chest heaved and his abdominal muscles clenched with airless, and thus silent, sobs until he was feeling slightly dizzy. He let his hand fall, not entirely trusting himself with not breaking out into wailing the very moment he did so, but greedily sucked in the air and willed the threat of sobbing down into slight panting. It wouldn't do to suffocate himself to the point of fainting in a restaurant restroom.  
  
John quickly ripped of a few sheets of toilet paper and used it to wipe away the tears that had fallen freely. There was a trash-bin in the stall (what for?) and he could have used it to get rid of the paper but he rather flushed it. He might or might not be high on painkillers, but he was not yet ready to admit he had gone into a bathroom stall for a sudden burst of crying.  
  
There was no one else in the restroom when he left the stall, so John quickly splashed some cold water in his face at the sinks and looked at himself in the mirror. Face dripping with water, eyes maybe a little red-rimmed, certainly some dark rings under them. He quickly picked up a towel (oh, how he loved that about the finer restaurants) and dried his face, looking down at the back of his hand where the mark of his teeth digging into the skin between first and second knuckle had all but faded. He rubbed over it, hoping that Mycroft wouldn't notice the two faint grooves his front teeth had left behind. John decided it was stupid to bite down on his own body parts to silence himself and slowly returned to his... date, for the lack of a better word.  
  
Back at the table Mycroft sat stiffly again, only relaxing when John came back. It seemed to John as if this was the first time he actually saw Mycroft that evening. He was too pale, eyes a little puffy, his left hand resting over his right wrist as if he was cradling and shielding a hurting limb. There was a special kind of weariness shining in his eyes and his otherwise indifferent features – all in all something that John was a little puzzled by.   
  
“Is everything all right?” Mycroft asked and John nodded absentmindedly.  
  
He didn’t dare to look at Mycroft as he said, “I could ask you the very same thing.”  
  
Mycroft smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. His lips jerked into place, but his eyes kept staring almost lifelessly, his brows a little drawn together even. “I will come around.”  
  
“That’s not an answer,” John mumbled and clenched his fist under the table.  
  
A thought came to John and he blinked hard against his feelings for a moment. He had no idea, frankly, what Mycroft was expecting from him or from their relationship. He had no idea what Mycroft saw and what he expected them to be. But John wasn’t quite sure that he could meet this expectations, whatever they were.  
  
It might be best to ask questions now rather than to feel the disappointment later.  
  
“Will you hate me if we… if this is not happily ever after? For not being Prince Charming?”  
  
Mycroft snorted slightly. “Who of us do you think I’m expecting to be Prince Charming?”  
  
“I don’t care,” sighed John. “No, that’s not right. I… quite on the other hand… Mycroft, I care too much for you to not care for what you are expecting. Because I’m not sure I can fulfill them. But I don’t want you to get hurt, all right?”  
  
Mycroft nodded and averted his gaze. He was unsure how to reply and the waiter rescued him with the last course.  
  
The dessert was a delicious chocolate mousse with fresh fruit. John watched Mycroft, the way his lips wrapped around the spoon and how he licked the remains from his lips.  
  
John himself licked his lips unconsciously and just tasted a bit of his dessert before he offered the rest to Mycroft. Mycroft eyed John carefully but then accepted, almost thankful for the diversion. While he kept eating slowly he also managed to ignore John’s eyes on him.  
  
John, likewise, ignored when Mycroft paid afterwards and just smiled faintly when Mycroft helped him up and into his overcoat again.  
  
“Thank you for tonight,” John said on their way to the door. “It wasn’t perfect, but that wasn’t your fault. I’m certainly not perfect. But thanks.”  
  
Mycroft smiled distantly, his eyes not lighting up with the same mirth his lips seemed to. Mycroft stayed half a step behind John on the stairs, a concentrated and concerned look on his face and he was prepared to catch John at the merest sign of him stumbling. However they reached the door without any accident, but Mycroft was still far from relaxing or relieved.  
  
John shivered lightly as they stepped out into the night and Mycroft fought down the urge to embrace him. John seemed so small and vulnerable, broken even. Mycroft tried hard to remind himself that John would become better, that his ankle would heal, as would the cuts and bruises. But something John had said stuck with him.  
  
There was something else in John, in his mind, that was far from being fine or healed and that was only kept at bay by his adrenaline filled life with Sherlock.  
  
It pained Mycroft to know that he couldn’t take that pain away. John had given him so much, had made him feel so much better about him self, and there was nothing he could do to help John. Except accepting the status quo.  
  
Mycroft almost winced at the thought.

 

* * *

  
  
The cool night air hit John and he shivered involuntarily. The door closed behind them and John turned to look at Mycroft. Mycroft’s face was a mask of concentration and John smiled. He loved to watch Mycroft think, but under the circumstances he felt almost guilty. For a moment he wished he could simply pull Mycroft into a kiss and make him stop worrying. But he had put off the conclusion to their discussion for too long anyway.  
  
“Mycroft, can we walk for a bit?”  
  
Mycroft turned completely towards John, gave him a once over and he seemed unhappy with the result of his analysis, “Walk? With your ankle?”  
  
“What can I say, I’m a masochist,” John replied in a lighter tone than he’d thought himself capable of. “No, I want to talk with you and I need some air to think.”  
  
Mycroft gave in with a curt nod, “I can grant you the walk around the block. That’s where the car is waiting.”  
  
“Thank you,” John smiled and let his fingers brush over the back of Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft didn’t jerk back but also didn’t take John’s touch as a hint to take John’s hand into his.  
  
Mycroft led the way (and all but offered John his arm) and John took a deep breath of the night air before he began talking, “Mycroft, I’m sorry.”  
  
“What for?” Mycroft asked brusquely. “You already apologized last night.”  
  
“Not properly. It doesn’t feel like you believe me.”  
  
Mycroft inhaled loudly, held his breath for a moment and let the air go in a sigh. He hadn’t. He had got drunk and felt sorry for himself. “That is not the point,” he said. “I’m not sure what to believe, let alone you - or myself, for the matter.”  
  
John was absolutely taken aback by that. “I’m sorry,” he pleaded, feeling close to tears again.  
  
“John,” Mycroft almost hissed. “I don’t need you to be sorry. I need... I have no idea what I need, actually. I have no plan for this, nor any idea how to go on.”  
  
John lowered his head, the guilt hot and angry in his stomach. “I’m still sorry. I never meant to hurt you. If you want me to... actually, if you don’t want me anymore, I could understand that. I’m... I don’t want you to not want me and it would hurt, but I could understand it.”

Oh god, a thought flickered through John's mind, I'm turning back into a teenager.  
  
Mycroft didn’t reply and they turned the second corner, the black car slowly rolling forward to the curb.   
  
John had been prepared to take a cab back to Baker Street after this evening and it took all his will power to not take it as an indirect answer to his question when Mycroft held the car’s door open for him.  
  
Expecting an answer hurt.


	16. What about time to see it through?

They spent the short drive to Baker Street in complete silence and just a little too much tension for John’s taste. He glanced at Mycroft occasionally, taking in his distinct profile. He had thought about speaking, but somehow Mycroft seemed so distant that even the thought about talking to him was intimidating.

Eventually they stopped outside Baker Street and Mycroft still hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even looked at him.

“Mycroft,” John began, his hand on the door handle, nails scratching nervously over the leather. “Do you still want me? Can you still be with me?”

There was another long pause in which Mycroft had his head turned towards John but his eyes cast down. When he finally looked up John saw a icy determination in his eyes, a determination that almost frightened him. Whatever Mycroft was going to say, there would be no changing his mind.

“I don’t think I can be without you.”

There was a moment in which John didn’t even know where up and down was anymore as the words were processed in his brain. He turned them around and analysed them until he was sure they actually meant what he had hoped for so much.

John leaned over, more than relieved, and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s lips. Immediately Mycroft’s eyes fell shut and he leaned into the kiss, wanting to deepen it but holding back. They parted and John felt cold although they still were only inches apart. Mycroft leaned back into the seat and cleared his throat, fingers twitching nervously up to adjust his tie.

“Do you want to come up with me?” John asked, putting his best puppy dog eyes to use.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, looked away and tapped on the floor with his umbrella. “Well, why not?” he finally said and gave the driver a small wave with his hand. John and Mycroft left the car together and John unlocked the door to the house. Down in the hallway John turned around to look at Mycroft, wondering if this had been such a good idea after all.

John gave Mycroft an uneasy grin, “Do you want a cup coffee or tea? Or should we go straight up to my room?”

“I think we can forgo the social rituals this time,” replied Mycroft, then followed John up the stairs - again wary of John’s steadiness.

If Sherlock was anywhere in the flat he didn’t draw attention to himself by either his comments, scraping on his violin or malodorous experiments. John was still a little nervous as they ascended the second flight of stairs. His tiny room, Sherlock, Mycroft’s all-but confession of love and the possibilities of tonight - it all only served to make him feel a little dizzy.

“It’s not much,” John admitted when they were in his sparsely furnished room. A queen sized bed took up most of the space, a tiny desk with a chair and a wardrobe were standing against the walls. “Well, make yourself at home.”

Mycroft closed the door behind them and leaned his trusty umbrella against the wall. Then he took the few steps towards John and quickly framed his face with his hands before pulling him into a gentle embrace. John’s eyes fell shut and his arms wrapped around Mycroft’s waist.

“Should we try to talk this over some more?” whispered John.

Mycroft leaned back to look down at John, “Or you could just stop talking. I am not very proficient when it comes to these social conventions but I’m quite sure small talk is not the reason for people ‘going up’ to their date’s flat.”

“Yes, it probably isn’t,” replied John and was shut up with a chaste kiss. “That’s a good reason to shut up.”

“You just can’t stop, can you?” smirked Mycroft. “Maybe I’ll just have to try harder, hm?”

John grinned and kicked his shoes off. “Come to bed with me. I need to get off my feet, my ankle is killing me.” He hobbled backwards to the bed and sat down, smiling sweetly up at Mycroft, and patted the mattress invitingly.

Mycroft followed John’s example, but a little more carefully. First he took off his jacket and then sat down on the edge of the bed, taking off his shoes and placing them side by side by the foot of the bed. Only then he turned his attention back to John who had shuffled backwards was leaning against the headboard now.

Mycroft paused for a moment and just looked at John watching him. He was still smiling softly. That smile went right through Mycroft and he wondered how he could have ever doubted that being with John was a good idea.

“How are you doing this to me?” Mycroft purred, moving next to John and leaned in to kiss him, nibbling at his lips, running his fingers through John’s hair.

“I don’t know, but have the sneaking suspicion that I’m not the only one guilty here,” John replied between kisses. Mycroft’s nimble fingers were working down to John’s tie and shirt buttons. It was a surprise when John found himself in his white t-shirt just shortly after and quickly returned the attention, first clumsily working on Mycroft’s waistcoat, trying to carefully take the pocket-watch out. Mycroft helped him with the watch, then removed his cufflinks and put them down on the night stand, next to his watch. In the meantime John continued working on the shirt buttons and, finally, desperately tucked on Mycroft’s tie knot.

“You’re very eager tonight,” smiled Mycroft – somewhere between wishful and concerned – and gently ran his hand up and down John’s good side.

“Just mind my ribs and I’ll be fine,” replied John, stealing a kiss before getting rid of Mycroft’s tie and then shoving his shirt along with his waistcoat off. After this it was the first time that John consciously found himself leaning against the pillows, Mycroft over him, straddling his hips and leaning in for a tender kiss. In the middle of their kiss Mycroft’s hands began to wander downwards, finally gripping the hem of the white t-shirt and pulling it over John’s head.

They were still for a minute as Mycroft drank in the sight of John’s bare chest, torn between loving admiration and sympathy as he traced a large bruise on John’s left side. Even the faint touch was stinging a little but John was getting harder by the minute, looking up at the impressive figure of Mycroft looming over him.

John lifted his left hand and ran it up Mycroft’s side. John was a little in awe and quite sure that Mycroft had the strength to hold John down against his will. But his kisses were tender and John wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck to hold on. With one hand Mycroft supported himself against the headboard, the other ran down John’s chest and down to his waistband, unbuttoning the jeans. John moaned loudly against Mycroft’s lips when he managed to undo John’s zipper by forcing his fingers between the two sides, brushing against John’s half-hard cock on the way down.

John untangled his arms from around Mycroft’s neck, now getting to work on Mycroft’s trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping, losing no time by pushing them off together with Mycroft’s underwear.

“You are really very keen today, are you not?” mumbled Mycroft hoarsely, seductively. The slight throbbing, bordering on actual pain, that had settled behind his eyes early this morning began to fade right now, as if to prove the point about Mycroft needing John.

Not that Mycroft needed any further proof after the emotional roller coaster he’d been through.

John bit his lip as Mycroft ran his hands down his side, then into John’s trousers and underwear, sliding them off – even right from under his butt – almost effortlessly. John moaned again, arching up against Mycroft, his fingers digging into Mycroft’s back, drawing them down, not caring if he was leaving marks, finally running his hands down to Mycroft’s butt, squeezing and massaging, all the while Mycroft was leaning down again, kissing John with a force and eagerness the doctor had not thought him capable of. There was something about Mycroft’s touch that left John aching for more, so much more.

He closed his eyes and let his head roll back, breathing in deeply as Mycroft was kissing down his neck and then picked out a particularly soft patch of skin just over John’s right collarbone and began to suck and nibble on it.

John’s breath hitched in his throat, he turned his head to give Mycroft better access. When he was done, Mycroft looked down with a quite mischievous smile on his lips.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, a glint in his wide eyes, running his fingers over the blossoming bruise.

As John looked up at him and admired how young Mycroft looked, words formed on his tongue that he hadn’t thought would ever pass his lips.

“I want you,” whispered John, his voice hoarse with emotion and desire, “I want you in me, I want you to take me.”

Somehow, he thought, saying those words had been easier than he had anticipated. He hadn’t dropped dead on the spot, either, and Mycroft didn’t seem disgusted or close to laughing.

He merely tilted his head to the side and his eyebrows rose. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, definitely,” John replied, eyes wide with curiosity. “I’ve... done my research. I trust you and I... I like you a lot. I want to share something special with you.”

“You said,” began Mycroft and leaned in to John, hovering over him, brushing his lips against John’s jaw, “that you never did this with anyone before. I’m not sure I can live up to those expectations. Not on a day like this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

John wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist and leaned his head against his shoulder.

“Look,” he began, but hesitated. “I’ve thought about it, a lot. I wondered how it would actually feel. I’ve wanted it from maybe the first time we made love. There were moments when I was just desperate to try it. And too ashamed to admit it. But not tonight.”

Mycroft had his arms around John and his fingers rubbed softly over John’s back. “Thinking about it and imagining how it would be won’t give you an accurate account of what will happen. We shouldn’t experiment on a night when you’re hurt.”

John shook his head and held Mycroft a little tighter as if he could make their bodies melt together in this embrace. “I’m prepared. I’ve got... the supplies. I’ve read a book – two, actually – about it. If I wasn’t sure of the implications I wouldn’t ask you this. If I wasn’t sure that we can work this out... it’s very intimate. And I want to be intimate with you. Also, I’m already full of painkillers. How do you think you could hurt me?”

The joke didn’t work out in John’s favour, it only served to make Mycroft feel more insecure. He sighed, his warm breath brushing over John’s skin. “About that, John...”

John loosened his grip and his eyes widened. “It’s a joke! I’m sorry! Please, Mycroft. I want you.”

Now that he’d uttered those words once he barely could keep himself from saying them far more often even.

“You’re serious?” Mycroft half asked, half stated. He sat down next to John, one arm around John’s shoulders, the other running over his chest.

 

* * *

 

However John had expected their first time to be, it was neither of those scenarios in the end. Not the sexy exploration, nor the desperate finger-fucking.

Mycroft carefully undressed him all the way, slowly, let John hand him the lube and condoms, said nothing about the toys in the drawer but filed the thought away for later.

He kept his touch tender and slow, letting John talk him through the preparations but insisted on doing them himself.

John joked that he’d read the books to Mycroft at some point, his chuckle hitching into a near soundless gasp when Mycroft’s fingers brushed over his prostate, more by accident than by design.

Mycroft was concerned, but they way John bit his lip, arched into the touch and held onto his shoulders reassured him.

When John had gone from insisting that he was ready to begging Mycroft to go on the older man finally gave in, helping John maneuver on his uninjured side.

It was an unconventional enough position for most couples, let alone for their first time together, but John enjoyed it, Mycroft against his back, his arms wrapped around John, John’s left leg bent forward and Mycroft’s following suit.

John felt protected and safe and it didn’t matter that Mycroft couldn’t move all that well or fast. They were both getting accustomed to it after all, so the slow, short movements were probably just right for them.

He twisted a little in Mycroft’s arms, pressing his hips back firmly against Mycroft, arching his neck to look at Mycroft. They both smiled and Mycroft claimed John’s lips in a soft, gentle kiss, full of tenderness and love and relief.

Mycroft’s hand splayed over John’s chest, wandered lower and eventually grasped his erection, squeezing and pulling in the same slow rhythm his hips rolled against John.

John almost sobbed into their kiss, overwhelmed by their sheer closeness, the aftershocks of their argument, the realization how close he had come to lose this. He never wanted this to end - not for the sex, no, for the safety of Mycroft wrapped around him, holding him close and showing him just how much he cared, allowing him a glimpse of something so private that oh so few people were privy to it.

He opened his eyes and found Mycroft look at him, his eyes half-hidden behind his lashes, yet acute and aware, focused on John.

Something delicate inside John snapped and he twisted further, not caring about the ache in his left side, all to bury his face against Mycroft’s neck.

“I love you,” he sobbed as his climax rolled over him, like waves breaking over him and pulling him under.

 

* * *

 

It took Mycroft a moment to come back from his own high, blood roaring in his ears and heart thundering in his chest. When he was capable of conscious thought he pulled out of John and rolled him gently on his back.

John mumbled something, eyes closed and blissful smile on his face. His belly and chest were stained, as well the sheets. Mycroft chuckled and brushed his fingers over John's hairline, just like he had done so long ago, a lifetime ago, on that Friday evening.

It was almost unbelievable to think that they should have come from there, from the exhausted doctor and the pining civil servant to the lovers, the couple they were now.

“What do I do with the condom?” Mycroft asked and John pried one eye open.

John nearly chuckled. Of course Mycroft wouldn't know. “Tie it up and find a bin,” muttered John, tired but slowly getting more conscious.

Mycroft did as John had told him and asked, “The bathroom is just across the hallway?”

John nodded. “Towels are in the cupboard under the sink.”

So Mycroft slipped out of bed and into his shirt, just covering him enough to be slightly decent and slipped quickly over into the bathroom. With a slightly mean grin he dropped the tied up condom into the trash and chuckled when he slightly missed and it hung over the edge. A part of him was shocked and embarrassed, but the rest of him was feeling too good to bother and eventually that part won over that told him that the condom thing would annoy the hell out of Sherlock.

Mycroft took a towel and, while he waited for the water to reach an acceptable temperature, looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. It was an interesting picture, a wide smile on his lips, his pale cheeks flushed and his red-rimmed eyes wide with excitement. His hair was a mess and sticking slightly to his sweaty forehead, but for once he didn't care how it never stayed in place and how he had inherited the early receding hairline instead of the thick, dark curls like Sherlock had. For once he felt that everything was all right, because he just had had the most amazing sex of his life and, while that might not sound like much of an achievement in comparison with his love life so far, it definitely felt wonderful.

Mycroft quickly slipped back into John's room where John was sprawled out on his back and had all but dozed off. Mycroft smiled at the picture, at John's blissful expression despite his almost alarming paleness. Carefully Mycroft walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. John pried his eyes open and smiled up at Mycroft.

“I think I'm ready to pass out.”

“Let me take care of you first.”

Mycroft leaned over John and wiped away the sticky stains on John's chest and belly. John moaned his approval and Mycroft kept rubbing the wet towel in soft circles over John's body. Finally Mycroft discarded the towel and took one of John's hands in his, inspecting the short nails and unable to look up at John. “I was a little scared,” he admitted. “Weren't you?”

“Terrified,” chuckled John. “But I trust you. And it worked, didn't it? It was amazing.”

Mycroft smiled widely, his words a little more reserved, “Yes, it was, wasn't it?”

“Take off that shirt,” muttered John and pulled weakly on the shirt's sleeve. Mycroft shrugged out of the offending garment and wrapped John in his arms.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked, shivering slightly.

John blinked lazily up at Mycroft. “Now that you mentioned it, there's some arnica lotion on the bedside table. It's s'posed to help with the bruise. Would you apply some for me?”

“Of course,” muttered Mycroft and pressed a kiss to the top of John's head. He gently unwrapped John from his embrace and got the ointment. John watched him and his lips set in a soft smile as Mycroft's fingers began to softly rub the cream onto the bruised skin stretched over John's ribs. After Mycroft was done and just before he screwed the container shut John took it and grasped his lover's right hand.

Without a word he applied some of the cream on Mycroft's bruised wrist, the skin tender and a bit swollen. Mycroft smiled and cast his eyes down. Wordlessly he took the discarded towel and wiped his fingers on a clean edge, offering it to John afterwards.

“We shouldn't have done this,” muttered Mycroft, crawling over to John’s bruised side, finally slipping under the covers with him. “Not with your ribs. You could have hurt yourself.”

“I don't mind,” replied John, still drunk on the ecstasy of his orgasm. “It would have been worth it.”

Mycroft shook his head, but answered with an adoring smile, “It wouldn't.”

“It was great and I want to do it again. I've never backed away from something because I could get hurt physically – Rugby, the Army, solving crimes with Sherlock, you. Now, if you can stop harassing my friends about me getting hurt once in a while. It happens...”

“Let's not talk about you getting hurt anymore,” whispered Mycroft, brushing his fingers over John's forehead and down the side of his face. “You're too attractive to get hurt.”

“And you're too powerful to get upset about it every time,” replied John and it was met with a snort.

“I still might have to bend you over my desk a few times to remind you how angry and worried I am whenever you're in danger,” purred Mycroft.

“Hold that thought,” muttered John, almost asleep already. “It sounds like a good idea for another day. When I'm not sore and on medication.”

Mycroft wrapped an arm around John, turning him gently on his side. John, in turn, rolled up and enjoyed the warm and solid body against his back, the possessive arm draped over him, although minding his bruise and ribs. John had never thought he would enjoy being held like this so much. But he had no chance to analyse these feelings further as he fell asleep just minutes later.

 

* * *

 

John woke the next day, some time around noon. A dull ache reminded him that he had missed taking his meds at least once. But something else bothered him a bit more.

He was alone.

Mycroft had disappeared.

John tried not to be disappointed, but failed. He blinked, staring at the ceiling, and his pain seemed to feed on his disappointment and grow stronger.

Eventually he turned his head to where he had had expected Mycroft to be and his attention was drawn to the obviously fluffed up pillow on the edge of the bed. There was a folded piece of paper on it and on that some kind of short twig with blossoms and a small, pinkish rose-bud. With slightly stiff fingers he reached for the flowers and the piece of paper. It had one frayed side and John suspected it might have been torn out of Mycroft's little book.

> _Good morning my dearest,_

John's heartbeat picked up speed when he read the words written in Mycroft’s slight handwriting and a smile tugged on his lips. Mycroft's endearments always made him feel almost embarrassingly flattered and happy.

> _Good morning my dearest,_
> 
> _I'm sorry but I had to leave for work – yet I didn't want to disturb your much-needed rest to say good bye in person. Forgive me, please._
> 
> _The last two days were the most painful in my life so far and it pains me even more to leave you when I would like nothing more than to stay with you, wrap you up and protect you from the world – but it has become clear to me that you neither wish, nor need any further protection (still, that does not mean that I do or have to like that point. If you would let me I would – maybe will? – argue against it)._
> 
> _I will have to content myself with showing you the same care and protection you have received and not rejected so far._
> 
> _I left you a small puzzle to solve. Let the peach blossom and moss rose's bud tell you the rest._
> 
> _Forever and truly yours,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Mycroft_
> 
> _p.s. I cannot wait to see you again as soon as possible._

 

John fell back into the cushions and laughed softly, brushing a tear of joy from his eye.

All would be fine.


	17. Epilogue: The Game is On

There was a particularly loud shout from upstairs, but John just blinked.  
  
“Well, he's been doing that on purpose for a while now. Having his 'friend' staying over.”  
  
Mycroft just smiled and took the teacup John held out for him. “He has a certain desire for revenge.”  
  
John chuckled, “Well, revenge...” It wasn't really revenge when Sherlock adjusted slightly for Lestrade in need of a compatible schedule, or when he had less time to ruin their flat with chemicals and body parts. It certainly wasn't revenge when Sherlock didn't have the time to be bored anymore – at least not so often as he used to.  
  
There was muttering, doors opening, doors closing, the shower. About ten minutes later there were doors opening again, closing, opening again and steps on the stairs. John smiled to himself, accustomed to that ritual by now. Only today he had a slight advantage.  
  
He poured another two cups of tea as the two sets of feet approached, holding them out with a big grin to the two men appearing in the doorway to the kitchen.  
  
“Good morning,” John greeted.  
  
“Goo-” was as far as Lestrade came, his eyes coming to rest on Mycroft, sipping tea from the 'proper teacup' that John had acquired especially for him and kept away from Sherlock at all cost.  
  
“You?” he spluttered and Mycroft gave one of his neither hostile nor pleasant smiles.  
  
“What do you want, Mycroft?” groaned Sherlock, taking the mugs from John and pushing one into Lestrade's hands.  
  
“You know him?” came the surprised question from the DI.  
  
“I can tell you haven't forgotten me,” smiled Mycroft, his eyebrows having inched upwards, obviously interested in the course of the conversation. “Have a seat, I won't bite.”  
  
John's ears were so attuned to Mycroft's voice by now that he even caught the amused “This time” he muttered into his cup. Sherlock had obviously heard it, too, and shot a particularly dirty look in the direction of his brother.  
  
Sherlock directed the hesitating Lestrade to a chair, a strong hand on his shoulder, but remained standing himself. “Of course I know him. All my life. My meddling, overbearing and older brother.” There was a certain emphasis on ‘older’.  
  
If John had ever seen an expression of surprise, it was the one adorning Lestrade's face right now. His eyes were flickering between Sherlock and Mycroft, one annoyed, the other bemused.  
  
“Tut tut, Sherlock,” smiled Mycroft, setting his cup down on its saucer. “You're always so aggressive, carrying this sibling rivalry of yours to an excess.”  
  
“Your brother. Of course, how could I ever have suspected anything else?” muttered Lestrade, lifting his mug to his lips before he could say what he was really thinking.  
  
“I am not carrying something to an excess here, Mycroft. Whenever you appear, you want something. What is it this time?”  
  
Now came Mycroft's moment and he relished in it, “Nothing from you – this time. John and I were simply discussing our weekend plans. The symphony tonight and then the country. I could do with a slight change from the awful London air. Sussex is nice at this time of the year.”  
  
Every hair on Sherlock's neck stood straight. But before he could say something Mycroft and John rose to their feet.  
  
“Ah, well. Nothing concerning you, this time,” Mycroft smiled again. “Now you will have to excuse us, I promised John to give him a lift to the practice. Good bye.”  
  
“Bye, “ grinned John and together they left.  
  
Sherlock was staring after them, glaring even.  
  
“So, what was that all about?”  
  
“It's a game. He's trying to beat me,” mumbled Sherlock.  
  
“Beat you to what?” Lestrade asked, seriously confused about everything going on.  
  
Suddenly Sherlock's head snapped back to Lestrade, facing him, staring at him, fixing him with his intense gaze. And a small smile played around his lips.  
  
“How would you like to meet my parents this weekend?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it. The end. I hope you liked it.
> 
> I should say something, I guess, but the only thing I can think of is that I apologize for the long wait. Also, any season 2&3 canon that you find in this fic is pure coincidence. It's just the way I imagined them and I'm glad that I was at least accurate in that way.


End file.
